Except that he won't talk to me, now. I don't know what I did wrong, if anything. It only reinforces the cruel self-loathing that's been rising up. It only reinforces what it whispers to me, and it only makes me feel less.

He won't talk to me. Why won't he talk to me? I don't know what I did wrong.

I wish he would just tell me. He was the one that emphasized being honest, communicating, not fucking around with each other's emotions. So why is he doing just that?

Fuck.

I thought he was different.

And the parade of self-destruction only grows.

You want to know what he said, just a few moments ago?
That his phone was off. He just turned it back on. I don't know whether to hold onto my self-righteousness and anger and hurt, or believe him. He's going to hurt me, either way. He already has.

God damn it.

Small Update,

A. I'm seeing somebody. He is taller than me, smart, funny, attractive, and my hormones go wonky around him. It's a new experience. I'm trying not to get in the way of myself. We were "dating" until a couple days ago, when he stated he wants what we have going, but he doesn't want the title of "boyfriend/ girlfriend". I do understand where he's coming from. It just hurts. I'm frustrated, I'm fighting off the creeping self-loathing that's trying to convince me I'm not good enough, not worth this, that he's making distance between us because he sees how repulsive I am, and he wants nothing to do with me but to fuck my body. I believe this is just the disease taking over, trying to sink its talons in and make me fuck this up, fuck this good thing I have going, because it is better for this fucking disease to have me alone and miserable than to have someone who may actually care.

B. I'm relapsing. I am eating incredibly disgusting amounts of food, mostly in secret, and then infrequently purging, maybe two or three times a week, and two or three times each session. It's getting out of hand. I can feel the monsters stirring. Things are beginning to go awry within my mind, again. I fear it.

C. I have a job, now, working at a hotel, third shift. This leaves me a few days a week to run errands and take care of daytime responsibilities, some of which actually exist. Instead, I spend quite a bit of time sleeping. It is nearly impossible to pull myself out of my bed, and the hypnotic world of my dreams. As the sun goes down, I rise.

I believe this is still, slowly, killing me.

And I am doing it to myself, all over again, only a slightly different flavor, new scenery.

At least I now live with some incredible, amazing people. People who I love and who love me. I must remember this, and not allow this crippling wave I feel coming upon me to convince me otherwise... or convince them, otherwise, that it's safest not to care, not to love me.

I need the help, now more than ever.

I know no one reads this blog, or cares. We all have enough going on in our own lives, and mine is totally insignificant in comparison. I am not asking for pity, nor advice. I just ask that if there is somebody out there who is reading these words, who feels anything at all, any kinship... Please let me know. And know that I am, I am still... here.

panic attacks and assumptions

I am still so angry. I am so violent internally, I am amazed it doesn't come boiling out, rapid fire.

I feel sick to my stomach. I am so sick of where I am, who I am, what I do. It feels like something trying to peel its way out from the inside. It wants to come ripping out, but it'll settle for less if there's nothing else.

I made the assumption the other day that this man I'm interested in was single. He and his girlfriend have a lot of history, they are quite chaotic in their relationship, but they have a kid together. I made the assumption, assuming that when he used the past tense, he meant they were done. I wanted that to be the case. I wanted that to be the truth, so I let that be the temporary truth, to allow myself to do something I've been denying myself for a long time. I should have known better. I do know better... But it happened; I can't take it back. I don't necessarily want to take it back, but now I'm confused, anxious, unsettled, a bit disgusted by myself. It's hard to sit still in my own skin, but who else's skin am I supposed to inhabit, if not my own?

What makes the situation more uncomfortable, unpleasant, disturbing for me... At least I was able to communicate to this man that I'm weird, I'm uncomfortable in close situations like this, I'm probably going to freak out a little. I was honest about my own strangeness. He asked me if I wanted him to leave his girlfriend and I could be his girlfriend instead. I told him that I didn't want to influence or affect his relationship with her, that if things could work out with her, then they should focus on that. I told him I'm fucking crazy. I told him that I liked his girlfriend; I do.

It's just, FUCK. What the FUCK is wrong with me? I despise being the 'other woman', or whatever the fuck this makes me. I despise those whores that get involved with people who are already taken, and what do I do? The exact thing...

It's just, he told me I was beautiful, that I was sexy, that he liked me, a lot. We were talking and we get along. He knew how to touch me, and if there is a god it knows I've been craving to be touched, to be pushed around and pulled and wanted, if there is a god it knows I have been craving so badly to be wanted... And he wanted me, he told me he's wanted me since we met, and I feel the same way, and it just escalated and I knew better, damn it, I KNEW BETTER...

What makes it even worse is that one of my best friends is his best friend; that's how we met. I don't know how my friend feels about this, or if this is going to affect anything; I don't even know if he really cares. I know he, my friend, has enough shit going on in his own life, but I'm not sure... I feel like he's a little pissed at me. Maybe that's just my own perspective, the reflection of my own feelings. I feel like he should be disgusted or pissed at me.

Why did I do this? I did not need more bullshit or drama in my life. There's more than enough. Damn it. Just, damn it.

I'm a fucking idiot.

I just want to disappear. These are not safe feelings. I do stupid things when the depression is sneaking back into my life. I do stupid things when I drink too much moonshine, and that isn't an excuse, it's a fact, I lose the part of me that prohibits selfishness of this caliber. I'm a mess. A fucking mess, and this is going to only get worse, get more complicated.

He wants to see me, again, he wants me. How can I go back to what was before? How can I say, maybe we're better as just friends, this is too complicated, I'm not this brave...

How do I fix this? How can I fix this, when it's always been broken?

Please, there may not be that many of you, if any, readers... but please, don't just read about my life and then say nothing. I feel bad, I feel worse when there's no response, there's no words, there's no retort. Tell me what shit I am, or give me some advice. How do I stop hating myself? How do I get out of this? How do I be brave enough to fucking survive what's coming? I'm not brave, I'm not smart, I'm not beautiful, I'm not anything but shit, at this point. These cycles come and they go, and it's coming back around again, I don't know what to fucking do, I need help, I need you to tell me something, anything, I don't know, just give me something.

What makes all this even more ridiculous and outrageous is that I'm constantly triggered to self-harm, I want to destroy myself, and I guess this is just one more way that I've done it in the past. But why, why, did I have to pick this moment, this person, this situation, to fuck up again? Why did I do this? WHY AM I DOING THIS? I feel like I'm splitting into pieces. I'm not dying, but the world is shaking and crumbling around me, and when it finally collapses, it's going to hurt a hell lot more than it does now. And I am so scared, so scared.

Help me.

there are bangs

When I say I'm self-harming again, I really should explain. I was never a cutter, really. I tried it, didn't really get many kicks from it, whatever. I burned myself every now and then, too, but it wasn't really my style. I've always been a picker. Pick and pick and pick away at it, like I'm trying to dig out of my skin whatever's trying to claw it's way out from the inside.

The proper name is dermatillomania. Compulsive skin picking. A form of OCD. Mine is severe, though there are times I forget this little fact. It started when I was twelve. I am now twenty-five. I was doing better. I really was. Then, just like every other... fucking... time, I got triggered.

Stress. It's a funny fucker, isn't it?

Summer is always a bad time of year for me. I've struggled through many summers in long sleeves, ninety/hundred degree weather, 100% humidity, and lying through my teeth, "Oh, I'm fine, really, no, that isn't sweat coming through every pore of my body, I'm fine, really..." Hiding, because shame is a bitter, angry, horrid pill to swallow.

I've done therapy. In and out, off and on. I've had so-called "professionals" try to push and pull and manipulate me into various treatments or mentalities, all to no avail. Usually, it just pissed me off, and I left. Noooo, you don't get to tell me I'm a perfectionist with obvious self-loathing and self-esteem issues, nooo, I TOLD YOU THAT THE FIRST DAY! Noooo, you don't get to tell me I have "anger issues" that I need resolve, noooo, FUCK YOU...

It's a vicious cycle of screwing myself over, time and again.

I think I need to go back to therapy, is what I'm getting at.

I hadn't touched laxatives in a very long time. I used to take them quite often, and when I stopped, I didn't have a bowel movement for two weeks. I was so constipated, I was vomiting after every meal, simply because my body would not, could not, keep the food down. There was no room. That's how bad it was.

Earlier this evening, I took my first two laxatives in over a year.

I've also taken some diet pills the past few days. My mind is seriously considering pulling out the "big guns", the anti-depressants and other medications I squirreled away when I quit them cold turkey, years ago.  (Side note: I quit them cold turkey because, 1: pharmaceuticals were my last resort back then, I was seriously making a plan and setting a date for killing myself, 2: I started feeling better after awhile, and 3: the realization hit me that my 'good doctor' psychiatrist was really a drug-peddling FUCK running an addictive fraudulent scam out of his office.) The meds are still good, to some extent. Though it is definitely not recommended to treat yourself... with old medications you were prescribed at a very dark, hellish time of your life. BUT oh... well... ya know, I feel it coming on, and I don't want that blind tunnel vision of that wicked depression monster, it's hideous, and I just know that if I start self-medicating NOOOOOOW... I should be fine. I'll be fine! Right? Right!

...Riiiiiiight...

But really, now, these crazy, energized spastic days I'm having??? It's crazy. The energy is frenetic, relentless, and the insomnia is getting to me, and I want to sleep, and I DO NOT WANT TO EAT, and I can feel the itch to self-destruct just writhing and crawling beneath my skin and it's causing me to do badthings and I don't want to do badthings but maybe I do because maybe this is the only way I really know to cope, and FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I think I need therapy. Or to go find the local mental institution and tell them I've lost my fucking marbles and the skies are laced with color like a marbled cake batter, and I can hear the hum of the everything, and see energy floating around things and people and nothing and the shadows are coming back and sometimes they whisper, and at night, oh god at night, the eyes are looking in the windows, and they're watching me and I know it's silly, I know it's stupid but there are clawed hands underneath the bed and I know I KNOW that these are not real but to me, to me, in those seconds of terror that grip strong and fast my heart and chill me to the bone marrow, that curdles my blood, I KNOW there's something there, and it's coming, it's waiting, its mouth is yawning wide and open bigger than is normal and there are teeth and they are for gnawing and ripping meat and the tongue that dances behind those teeth wants pretty red rivers to flow from my pores...

And there are bumps and bangs in the night and they ARE real, these are not imagined, and there should be no bumps and bangs, I am alone, I am alone in a big house with no one for miles in any direction, and I am alone, and there should be no bumps...

See? Do you see...?

Seething.

I am so angry all the time. It's drowning while you're so desperate for a drink, you would kill for it. I'm so afraid of myself. I know this isn't healthy. I don't know how to stop it. I am so goddamn angry... all... the time. I want violence. I want to taste blood. I want to feel crushing bone, I want to see that same fear in someone else's eyes.

Shit has been ridiculously chaotic in my life, lately. I'm getting back into college, again, taking online classes and preparing for some continuing ed courses that look to be interesting. I missed the last date to begin curriculum courses, but I'm not allowing myself to worry too much about that. There's enough going on. That's rather low on the priorities scale.

My aunt died a month or so ago. My father nearly died about two weeks ago now, and is still in the hospital. My mother is with him. I am at their house, doing what I can to assure my mother that there's nothing to worry about here. I know it helps them out, and it helps me, because at least this way I feel like I'm doing something to help.

There's enough to do here, but I've been feeling the familiar cruelty of depression rising. I'm fighting, as best as I can. Though, I can also see myself, and I know that there are some things I am doing that are almost triggering the slide back down into hell. I try to stop myself, but sometimes there's no way to prepare for the sudden blast of self-loathing that comes from nowhere. That's part of the anger. The anxiety is amping up. I've been more and more self-destructive. Not with drugs, I've actually cut back tremendously (thankfully) on that, and the alcohol, for the moment. I've been self-harming again, and my OCD is pitching forward like a tug boat caught in a hurricane. Today, I purged on purpose for the first time in a month. I think it's really been that long. I was doing better. Then reality hit, and I've been losing ground again.

I've also been steadily moving out of the house I've been renting for the past six months. Breaking the lease, bad girl. But this house sucks. My roommates are... whatever. There's been so much chaos and drama and stupid bullshit associated with this house, I am past over it, and the person I moved in to supposedly 'become better friends' with. I want nothing to do with it, or her, anymore. I barely even sleep there. She doesn't sleep there at all. She abandoned that house, and our friendship, months ago, to go get high with her piece-of-shit sociopath boyfriend.

Despite the bulimia, the self-harm, the semi-suicidal thoughts, the rise and fall of some version of mania when I'm sober, I'm still fat. Still too much. It wasn't really bothering me too badly there for a minute, as if I had somehow found a way to have a body that maybe wasn't perfect, and still have confidence, too. Or at least, the ability to walk around without wanting to saw my own flesh off with an exacto knife. I could say that, but I think that's a lie, too. I think what really happened is that I stopped looking in the mirror after a certain point. I would get dressed, make sure I didn't look like a hideous blob, and if I at least managed to look somewhat decent, then I left it at that. But the wincing at my reflection hasn't really stopped. Maybe it never will. I hope so, though.

I think I was nearly recovered, really. Something had happened to my brain when I did mescaline at a festival. I had been purging multiple times almost every day, and then that experience happened, and it was like the bulimia was just... gone. Not gone, but disconnected. I remember at one point of my trip, the entire universe was chanting 'purge, puke, purge, puke, puke, puke', and it was like it was unraveling my very DNA. I watched myself unravel to the very structure of my essence, and then reconstructed. In the process of this, answers were thrown at me, for why I do all the things I do. And it made no sense! It only made sense to stop, to move on, to let go. And letting go is terrifying... but once I came back to reality... It was as if I could breathe fresh air, again, without the gnawing, biting, hateful spewing to haunt me. Too bad it didn't stay disconnected. I think, really, since all this shit hit the metaphorical fan, that I was almost waiting for a reason to give in. To give up. To stop caring about my own well-being and health. (Wait, I never really 'cared'... Or, I cared, but I didn't do anything actively to show I cared...) It was like I was just waiting to be triggered. I think I may have known to an extent, but I kept it buried, like I was really so ignorant. But the more I think about it, the more I'm afraid I'm right.

I was waiting to relapse.

And that may very well be why I am seething inside.

coffee shop

Two older ladies, perhaps in their forties or fifties, are talking about dieting and food. I'm sitting here wishing every ounce of cellulite and fat on my body would magically shrivel up, die, and vanish into thin air. One of them just started a diet because her clothes are getting tight.

My best friend just had a baby a few months ago and is almost back down to her start weight, of 100 lbs soaking wet. Then again, she's 4'11", but what do I care? It's the WEIGHT that's my problem, my HEIGHT has nothing to do with anything other than my ability to reach things on the top shelf.

Last night, my father made a comment about my weight. He said something to the effect of, maybe if [I] didn't snack before and after meals, I wouldn't have such a pronounced midsection. I came back with something about how I'd learned [over-eating] from the best, with a pointed pat on his shoulders, and soon afterward, retreated to my bedroom.

See, I learned this bingeful, shameful behavior from him. My parents are not thin. They're not fit. Yeah, they're probably healthier than I am, at this point, and that's saying something, considering they both have life-altering/threatening diseases. 

I'm 25 and I look like a bloated balloon filled with jelly. Flabby, fat, little to no muscle, I get tired too easily; I'm in constant physical pain because I don't move my body enough. That is fucked up. I have cellulite nearly to my fucking knees... I'm not kidding. I wish I was.

Fortunately, things are changing. On a positive note, I AM losing again. If I eat anything, I basically purge it, the exception being breakfast. I'm counting calories, again, finally. And the pills, well, yes, I'm taking the pills again.

So there's something.

ending

I've purged every single day for the past two weeks.

I'm not losing weight.

I want to disappear. From this place; from this body; from this earth.

Fuck this.

the end is the beginning is the end is the

It isn't that I want to be skin and bones. I hate my skin, for more reasons than I can count, and my bones, well, they're no better. Strip the skin off, and they're ugly, bare, fragile, exposed. I don't want to be exposed. I don't want to be seen. I'm repulsed when people look at me, when they try to touch me. Not by them, by myself. I don't see it; what the hell is it that they see?

I don't want to die, not in the literal sense. Not as a metaphor, either. I don't know what I want, that's the pressing issue here.

I tell myself I don't care. I don't care. I. Don't. Care. Do Not. Not. Do. Care. I do. (Not.)

Instead of verbalizing, I give you motivation. This is what I spend my time doing, putting pictures into secret files on my computer.

Damn. So maybe part of the reason I can't sleep is because I got some cocaine over the weekend. I did most of it, but there's still a bit left over. I did a line earlier, and now I want more. I'm "motivated" to do something, but I do nothing.

My dog ran away earlier today. Apparently she was in the middle of the road, trying to make friends with the cars. The cars fly on the road I live on. I got a call from this cute couple down the road, and they were holding onto her for me. My blood literally ran cold. I think if she was hit, I'd... I don't know. I can't think about that.

I weigh roughly 145 pounds. I can't even... go... there...

There's a jar of peanut butter sitting next to my bed. Yes. I really am that pathetic.

Good night, world.