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.

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.

If only I could wrap my head around all of this.

I've wanted to write for weeks, but haven't found the time or the privacy. Finally, it's 12:32 in the morning, and I have a moment, but I'm tired. So tired... of thinking, of the drama, and of all the pointless and trivial idiosyncrasies that carve out their niche in my life. I don't really know what to tell you, or how, or why I care to even bother. I think it's just the urge to keep a record of sorts, no matter how scattered and abused.

I've been car hunting for about a week and a half now, stuck at my parents', thankful that they are letting me use their car to get around and search for the next motorized sucker. A kid and I collided head-on and totaled my car, barely damaging his mother's truck, and now I'm left dealing with whatever bullshit this is while I'm sure he's off fucking his girlfriend.

No, I'm not really that petty or angry at him, I'm just in a really bitchy mood. I've been in a bitchy mood for what feels like weeks now. I've been so angry, so passive aggressive, so damned ill with society's shortcomings and, to be more exact, the people in it, that I've turned into this foul, abruptly violent creature that scares me when I catch its reflection in the mirror. But on some unassuming level, I could not give less a shit about it. I'm livid? So be it. I'm fat? Now there's a fucking problem.

I've come to the conclusion that I can't accurately call what I've got 'bulimia'. It's more ED-NOS at this point. I guess it always was, really, and I just couldn't quite make sense of it.

It's so strange being open with people. Saying the words, "I had an eating disorder," and even admitting that I'm having trouble now. It feels, at times, like I'm betraying myself in the worst way. I'm showing people every deep, abysmal, bleeding scar I've got, and expecting them to either live with it, or leave. Which is basically how I feel about it, anyway, but still. There's so much more that I keep buried, that I evade with the smiling and the laughing and the drugs and the temporary, meaningless bullshit that seems to permeate the air these days. It's like the plague, and no one gives a fuck.

those looks

I wish I hadn't gotten rid of my old blog. The one where I had nearly two hundred readers, followers. Where at least somebody commented or gave a shit that I was deteriorating into a million tragic, self-loathing pieces. This blog? It sucks, I know. I suck, I know.

I can't stop throwing up. I'm purging every day. I am eating beyond the recommended daily intake for normal people. Sometimes, I don't even purge when I eat, and then I buy another lunch... and purge that, because I realize, holy crap, wow, I just ate five thousand calories in an hour, should do something about that, yeah? Yeah.

I've gone downhill quickly. My weight boomerangs between 140 and 160. Depending, of course, on if I keep the food down or not. Depending on if I eat anything. I eat everything, if I eat anything, so I know I should just NOT EAT, but that's impossible. I read somewhere that the option of not eating doesn't exist for the bulimic. I guess I'm not your traditional bulimic. I don't think I'm really sick, though, because I don't feel guilty when I'm eating. I don't recognize feeling full anymore. I don't feel bad for eating. I barely even register how many calories or how many grams of fat or carbs or anything are in the crap I ingest. I just do. And then, after the fact, I just go find a nice little spot to pull over and purge. Maybe it's a public restroom. Maybe it's a pull-over at some exist off the highway. Maybe it's a parking lot. I try to make sure no one is around, or sees me, or hears me. But sometimes it's unavoidable.

I'm reminded of when I purged a year or so ago, at a show. I'd been drinking and got the munchies. After I ate, I went to the bathroom; there were several stalls, and no real privacy. But I did it anyway. And I remember that I tried to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. And when I walked out? My friend, who is recovered from an eating disorder herself, was stepping out of the stall next to me. I remember another time I had just gotten done purging when I heard the girl, some unknown, faceless girl, throwing up a few stalls down. She was so pretty, I remember thinking.

So many of my friends have had eating disorders. We seem to attract each other. I want to be honest, to tell people that I'm not doing so well, that I need help. But I don't feel it warrants that much concern. Because shouldn't I be fucking skinny? Shouldn't it be obvious that there is a real problem, and not just this fat blimp I see in the mirror?

Another thing that blows my mind is how these guys seem to find me attractive. I've had fairly regular sex, and there's a few more guys towing the line, like they're interested. I try to keep my confidence up, play it off that it's because I'm awesome. But then that malicious, cruel side of me laughs and spits these vile things at my self-esteem. Like, they're only interested because I'm easy, or because of that rocking personality I pretend to have. I'm such a fucking fake person, it blows my mind no one else sees it.

They don't, though, most of the time. I'm this bubbly, hyper, rambunctious, shit-talking girl. I'm happy, I'm always smiling or laughing or cracking jokes. I'm always so damn happy. I'm always going out, having a good time, cheering up other people if I can, just by being there and listening and being real and a genuine person. But they don't see what lies I spin. The shit that comes out my mouth? Bullshit. Yeah, it can be truth, the majority of the time. But damnit, I'm not fucking happy. Happy means that things are mostly okay in my head, that I can live with myself, that I'm not disgusted by my reflection or my thoughts or terrified by my feelings. Happy means that I can handle the extreme and the mundane. I can't handle anything. I'm out of fucking control. I've started hurting myself again, and I keep thinking about cutting or burning myself. I keep looking at all these bottles of pills I've collected over the years and I think, "I could do it". I could.

But I'm so scared, and so lazy, and there's just too much energy that goes into taking your own life. I don't have it in me. I wish these people who think I'm so amazing, or that I'm (Ha!) beautiful, would just shut the fuck up for once and instead give me that look, that penetrating steely look, that says I KNOW. I know you. I know exactly what's going on. I want them to ask me for the truth, to demand it.

And they don't. Do any of us? No. We're all liars, we're all frauds. But they're prettier than me at spinning their webs of deceit and manipulation. I only manipulate myself. I'm a fool.

And this is how I end this rant.