Stranger things...

The other night I dreamt of the end of the world. I saw my end. It was an odd way to die, compared to how I normally think I would.

The earth opened up and swallowed me. It wasn't really an earthquake. It was more like the earth just didn't want to be intact any longer. I watched police officers and horses, pedestrians, cars, houses, trees, get swallowed by this massive, black hole of shaking, violent earth. I was climbing trees and stairs, leaping from object to object, clawing my way up slabs of concrete being heaved down into that nothingness, trying to stay alive for just one more second, trying to make it just one more moment. I remember thinking of how it was going to hurt, this was going to be a painful way to die, I wasn't ready to die, I was alone, where was my family, my friends, why was this happening, why didn't it stop? I didn't want to die.

I kept trying to fling myself off objects far enough so I could fly away and save myself, but not far away enough to send myself off into the ever after of that death.

It was a strange dream.

Acquiesce

I'm really attempting to try to get a handle on my eating. Today, I actually made a salad rather than go down the street to the best fast food chain this side of the Mississippi and order the usual. The purging is mostly under control, so long as I'm not alone in my car with said 'usual', or feeling particularly shitty for indulging in a meal. A normal meal, I might add, that normal people would consume in one sitting. Normal, as in, not the morbidly obese, but the 'in the middle'.

I don't know if it's working or not.

Also, I finally gave in and started taking Prozac again. I've had these prescriptions laying around for awhile now, and with my moods as they are, I don't see a good enough reason to delay the inevitable. Once I'm a little more stable, I'll figure out a better alternative, like a therapist, or kickboxing. As it stands, I cannot afford either of those things, and I have already spent the money on these magic happy pills, so I may as well fucking try it out... (again.)

We'll see.

My roommate, also one of my best friends, more like a sister... she and I are going to an NA meeting tomorrow night. We've been talking about it for a couple weeks, now, and I think, no, I know, that it's time I take action or risk the consequences. The consequences being, of course, my lack of will power and self confidence to not fuck up and totally fuck myself over.

So, there's that.

I've been incredibly emotional the past few days. I sleep too much, too long into the day. It's hard to convince myself to get out of bed, unless there's a damn good reason, and usually there just isn't, not in my warped mind. If I get out of bed, then I go down to the kitchen and I eat. If I eat, I usually want to eat more. If I eat more, then I want to purge because I've made myself a horrible human being, once again, and I can't stand it. The other alternatives once I get out of bed is that I'll either sit around in my bed and play on the damn computer all day long, or I go out and spend money I can't afford to spend on things I can't afford to spend it on... And so the dirty cycle continues.

That's probably all for now. Much love.

Binges equate to me eating several regular people's meals a day, and for the most part, I'm purging them all. I've been throwing up in my car mostly, because I have three roommates and it's hard to explain. I haven't really been *that* open about the bulimic tendencies, and I don't know how to broach the subject now that it's getting worse... again. I'm definitely relapsing. Almost every day this week, let alone this month, I've purged my food. Whether it was a complete meal, a snack, I've been purging. I don't like the feel of food in my stomach. I hate the way I look, the way my body feels. I don't like the reflection in the mirror because it reminds me how far I've fallen off the wayside. I had my shit together there, for a minute. No more.

And it's getting worse.

I gave in. A few days ago, I found a syringe. I shot up. I didn't even really get what I was going for. The taste, I didn't get it, not like I was wanting or expecting. I got high, yes, my pulse sped up and I got high, yes. But it wasn't like how I wanted it. It wasn't right. And so I threw away six months of being clean off the needle for nothing.

I'm not going to do it again. No, I'm not. I can't afford that shit. It isn't worth it. It isn't. I have to remember this, for the next time the temptation, the depression, makes me reckless and fearful. Because it isn't the need or the desire, anymore, it's just fear. Solid, unadulterated, pitiful fear.

I can't believe I did it. I'm disgusted with myself. But I can't, I won't, let that bring me back down into the depths of that horror I know so well. I'm not going there. I can't. I just can't.

Please, if there's a god, a higher being, please help me master the weaker parts of myself. Because I am weak... and I don't know how long I can hold on if I go back down that road.

Fuck.

I haven't bothered to weigh myself lately, I know I've gained with my constant eating to fill the bottomless hole in me, and my voracious appetites of varying sorts doesn't help. I don't make sense to me anymore, and I'm losing my mind all over again. Depression is knocking and I have little to no control over the outcome anymore. I don't know if I really care. I don't know if I actually want to have that semblance of normalcy; it seems being crazy is one of the few things I'm good at, along with being depressed. It's sad, isn't it, that this is my mentality? Stay fucked up, I'm good at it.

This weather is fucking with my health (I'll pretend my rampant drug use and ungodly hours has nothing to do with that). When I get by myself the depression attempts to swallow me whole. I feel the desperation for someone to care, to come along and save me from myself. It's a terrifying feeling, to want so desperately someone else to come along and rescue me. It isn't going to happen, I know this. Even if someone did care enough to try, I wouldn't let them in. I'm too fucked up, too scared to open myself up to that kind of vulnerability.

What the fuck is going on in this whacked head of mine?

I keep eating, because I noticed that I wasn't, and food is the prime suspect for how I cope, even though it isn't coping, because I'm only adding fuel to the fire of my hell-bent self-destruction.

It's all quite ridiculous. I hope I come back out of the rabbit hole soon.

Shit.

Understanding

I realize that no one really reads or cares what's going on with me. I'm not so naive and self-absorbed to see that this is mainly a board to bounce my own thoughts around, for my eyes only to know about.

I'm struggling. I was never recovered, but I was doing better. So I thought. About a month ago, maybe less, I started purging again. It's becoming a regular habit, once more. I've also noticed that I either binge, or I go too long without eating a thing. I am happier with myself when I realize that I haven't eaten anything for hours, or days... Though 'days' is a bit of an overstatement. Tuesday, I went all day without a thing, and didn't even get out of bed but to use the bathroom and get a drink of water.

My moods are deteriorating as well. Sky high one moment, and deflated the next. I keep eyeing the bottles of Prozac I still have, stuffed away in a big red bag in my closet, full of plenty of other magic pills that will make the big, mean, angry storm cloud of self-hate and impending doom evaporate. I keep looking at it, and holding off. I don't want to go back down this road. I don't want to admit that it's about time I go looking for help, admitting that I need it... again. I don't want to be this person, this sad, miserable, selfish, spiteful, angry, weak girl... anymore. I don't.

Denial sucks. Though I haven't so much been in denial with other people. I'm fairly honest, actually. Some of my best friends are there because I am bleeding-heart open about some things. Like the shooting up, I'm honest about that. I'm fairly honest about the bulimia, though I can't bring myself to admit that I am relapsing this much. I've let it slip that, yes, I'm tempted. That I want to collapse into full-fledged self-destruction. I can't spit out those words, exactly, but I do hope it's more obvious than I let myself believe.

I desperately need somebody to save me. I have no control over my life. I can barely take a breath without it being robbed from my lips by the fear. Yes, the Fear. It's hard to admit when I'm wrong. When I'm fucked up, really, not just because I'm jokingly saying "I'm crazy", but that I truly am, and no, there's no fucking ladder or rope out of this pit, it's just a constant fall into the abyss, and there's nothing there, no one, to stop or catch me.

We're supposed to be able to save ourselves. We are supposed to take control and make shit happen and give our lives meaning.

Why is it so goddamned hard for me?

I'm an addict. I'm addicted to drugs, it doesn't really matter what it is. I want drugs in my system every day. If I don't have them, then I want them, I go looking for them, and I usually succeed in finding them. I haven't stopped. I've been in denial about how bad it's gotten. Every day, I'm high. Every night, I'm high. Or drunk, or both. Usually both. I wake up the next day, if I slept at all, and my first thought is how much I hate myself. The second is if I have any drugs left over. The third is how the hell am I supposed to fucking cope with this life I'm throwing away?

I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to do this. This "living" thing. What the fuck is LIVING? How does everyone else do it? How do you pull yourself up every morning and make yourself go about like nothing's wrong, nothing's fucked? EVERYTHING IS FUCKED. Work is just a distraction, parties are just a distraction, one I gladly participate in. School is just a distraction. None of it fucking matters in the end, anyway. We all turn to dust, we all fall down, we all are fucked. Why bother? I'm a shell of a creature, sliming my way through this world. I have no reason for going on, I'm just wasting the air and space and time and energy that would better serve someone else, someone with a future, someone with meaning.

But will I do anything about it? Probably not. I'm too lazy, too scared, to do shit about it. I'm not suicidal. I just don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to do this. I have no passion, no will.

All I have is this fear. It's choking me.

Help.

PS: I lost ten pounds. I now weigh 139 pounds. Still fucking huge. Still nowhere near what I need to be for festival season. Just got to keep up whatever the hell I'm doing right.