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.