Delete

I’m censored and trapped. I can’t do anything, write anything, say anything, without it having to go through a rigorous “is this acceptable? what consequences will this cause?” So I shut up and keep quite and don’t say a thing. nothing is safe anymore. Maybe I should just delete it all. Maybe I should just go back to sleep.

Should. Should. Should. Alright.

Busted my ribs on Sunday night. 
My nails are purple a lot of the time again.
I read more than anything, probably just so I don’t have to think.
I drink watered down chocolate almond milk sweetened with no calorie stevia. 
I eat precisely 2 vegan marshmallows separately.
My period comes exactly 7 days late every month now. 
I’m eating the 6oz almond milk yogurts now instead of the 4oz ones.
I drink more tea and water than I eat actual food.
I am sick of apples, and spinach, and carrots, and broccoli, and over cooked zucchini.
I should drink more water.
I should pay attention more.
I should apologize less. or more. I’m not sure. Sorry.
I should interact with people more.
I should go outside more.
I should stop hiding and running from my problems.
I should figure out what my problems actually are.
I should sign up for a class for the fall.
I should brush my teeth more often.
I should wash my make up off before I go to bed.
I should do a lot of things, but I’m probably going to continue sitting here doing nothing. Wrapped in my shroud of semi-ignorance. Pretending everything is alright.

Aside

So the reason I haven’t been posting as much as I used to is because I just don’t feel that need to write anymore. Before I used to write because I wanted my thoughts and struggles and just basically my life written down because I didn’t think I’d be around long enough to be able to explain it to all the people who need me to. But now, things are different, I can see a future, I’m not waiting on my imminent death to come any day now, I’m not pushing that date further. I’m just here and that’s okay. I don’t need to frantically document and give reasons as to why I did what I would have ultimately did to end my life. I don’t need to justify why I did what I would have done. I don’t have that need. And I guess that’s a good thing.

Imagined flames

I shut down on J again last night. I couldn’t be touched. I just couldn’t. It burned, mentally, which translated to physically as well. Emotionally it made me more and more unstable. I couldn’t be touched. I couldn’t explain it either. I just curled up and scooted away from his touch and shrugged his hands off and whined in pain if that didn’t work. He stopped and we went to sleep. Though he was happy this morning because in my mostly unconscious state when he tried to wake me up I clung to him like a koala bear and nuzzled my face into his chest.  

I know he’s going to ask about it tonight. But I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t even know what to say or how to explain it. Just that his touch hurt, not because he was too rough, but because mentally I couldn’t handle being touched by anyone.  

Separate

I can’t separate disordered from reality in my thoughts anymore. “I want to do this, but why?” I can’t figure out the answer. I used to be able to say that it was a logical thought or a disordered thought or a logical thought with a disordered background, etc. but now? I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know. I want to eat mainly raw this week. Why? I could say because I want to see if it will make me feel better, I could say because I bought a lot of fresh fruits and veg and want to use it all before it goes bad, I could say because I like the food that way. OR I could say because I want an excuse to eat less calories, because I want to lose weight, because I’m scared of cooked food, because I’m scared of the calories in the other foods. I could say a lot of things and have a lot of reasons, but what’s the real reason I’m doing it? I don’t know. i can’t pinpoint the motive anymore. I just do things, whether they’re good for me or not. 

broken record.

Every day I’m either restricting or bingeing. I can’t stand it. Either way I’m always thinking about food. Always stressing about it and how this food or that food will affect my weight. I panic when I step on the scale. If my weights gone up I cry and get extremely upset and angry at myself. I’ve resorted to slamming my arms on the corners of the walls again as punishment for it. If I lose weight, it’s not enough and I cry anyway. I want to be okay with food but more foods are finding themselves back on the fear food list for no apparent reason, I’m not have an allergic or intolerant reaction to them, they’re just scary and I can’t eat them anymore. I panicked and cried when I ate a bite of mashed potatoes that my boyfriends mother prepared for me because I could taste the vegan butter added to it and I felt filthy and tainted and disgusting for having it pass my lips. I refused to touch the oil that my boyfriend and I were using to grease a pan to make gluten free grain free vegan pizza because.. I don’t know, I thought I might somehow ingest it or absorb it’s calories and fat? I don’t know I just freaked out about it and nearly fell and tripped over a chair when he put his greasy hands near me after he greased the pan, just so I could get away from the oil. I’m not okay. I know that. I hate how I look. I hate how I exist the way I do. I hate that I’m not invisible, that I haven’t disappeared. I just don’t want to be noticed. I want to be gone, for a little while at least, until things get better and I’m not like this anymore, but I know I can’t do that and that makes me even more upset. Because I can’t deal with any of this anymore. and that just triggers me to use food as my coping mechanism again and it’s an endless cycle and I can’t get myself out of it. I’m stuck in this repetitive loop like a broken record and I can’t do anything about it. I just want to be okay. I want to be better. I want to be okay. I know I’m not okay.

Fading whisper

I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore. regardless of what the scale says; all I see is excess. I can’t stand it. I hate it. I want to rip it off of me. I want it gone. I want to be tiny, minuscule, I want to be so small, so non-existent that no one will even think to hurt me because it will be so obvious that they don’t need to because I do it enough to myself. I want to disappear. I want to fade into the horizon. I want to make no sound, not even a whisper as I fade away.

I just don’t want to exist.

There is too much of me and I can’t handle it all. Maybe if I’m smaller I’d be able to handle myself better because there would be less of me to handle. Maybe if I was smaller other people would be able to handle me because there was less of me to handle.