just a word

In exchange for my mind back, I'll give you these words. Just please, please give me back my mind.

I'm falling, flailing. Not that it matters, not that many care at all, but I have to put it down in words that I can see, that I can taste on the tip of my tongue, to force myself into the realization that I'm not lying, that this isn't just me being starved of oxygen or sanity, this is really happening. Again. Yes, it is.

And I'm practically condoning it.

I haven't weighed myself in a long time because I know the number is far more terrifying and if I see a number, that will become my identity, rather than my name given to me by my parents who I know love me and care about my well being. If I see a number, it will obliterate any concept I'm trying to retain of basic health. I will hurl myself over the ledge, rather than just toe the edge of the precipice I now find myself wandering drunkenly along.

I've been bouncing back and forth, flirtatious with the devils of my past and present and, undoubtedly, the ghosts that already haunt the worlds of tomorrow. I'm taking diet pills again. I've negotiated my way to eating mostly at home, a more critical eye watching intake. I've been denying myself meals again, the trigger switch of the better parts of this hell. I've also been continuing with the practice of purging, though it is rather random and chaotic in its nature.

My mental state is deteriorating, or improving dramatically, depending on how you view these trivial matters like 'sanity' and one's 'well-being'. According to the sickness, this is all good, this is all how it is meant to be. This is natural. The falling, the flailing, the sudden onset of rage, bitterness, or sullen teenager syndrome. The depression? Oh, folly, that's NORMAL, you idiot!

Look in the mirror?! Fucking dumbass, right here. See that? YEAH. That's why you're not going outside. That's why you don't wear half the clothes in your closet. That's why you keep your fucking mouth shut. That's why you should not eat a single fucking thing all day, every day, until you're a walking corpse, you fat fuck. You think you're sad, you think you're a failure now? Wait, just wait. It only gets worse.

Then the real me steps forward, sweeps the stupid, shallow cunt of a girl back into the dark, grimy shadows for a moment or two, just long enough to convince me that everything's really okay, that the darkness isn't clawing its ugly way back into my every day and night. Just long enough to eat, just long enough to switch the manic into forward motion, and then the darkness rises like some wretched, horrific nightmare and quashes that little moment of indifference, of joy.

And so it goes, on and on, again and again.

It astounds me I'm not dead yet. My dreams are all apocalyptic, sexual, or heart-stopping. My days are spent trying to silence the fears, the thoughts, the voices that have started back with repetition and volume, the shadows  move in and out of my periphery and there are things that are not really there but sometimes I can't tell what they are or aren't. It's back to this. I wish, FUCK, I wish I had saved myself before, not given in, not given up, that I hadn't gotten scared, that I had someone, anyone, who would grab me by the shoulders and shake me profoundly, because they loved me, they LOVE me, and the idea of living without me is disconcerting and impossible and that they'd tell me, PLEASE FUCKING TELL ME, that I am not allowed to die, please tell me I am not allowed, because then maybe I can just start to try to believe that.