believe it.

I can feel myself breaking, I’ve been saying it for weeks. But it’s not that sudden shatter of dropping glass on cement. It is the painfully slow decaying that goes unnoticed by so many until it is too late and it’s collapsing under the pressure. It’s the kind of breaking that will drive you insane if you notice it because no one else will see it and no one else will believe it.
But when it finally collapsing, everyone will see, everyone will know. There will be no hiding it. It will be out in the open for every one to gape at. Most will not stick around to help pick up the pieces. Even more will leave when it comes to putting everything back together again and rebuilding. Will there be anyone left when my time to rebuild comes? Will there be anyone left when I need help to strengthen the withered supports? Or will I be alone again to try and fix things haphazardly and as quickly as I can manage to make myself appear presentable again? Will I be able to rebuild myself this time around?

I don’t like this new layout. it’s weird. and in other news:

All food is too much food. All I want to do is eat sugar, sugar, and more sugar. I want to stuff myself silly with candy and ice cream and chocolate. But if I eat, it’s too much. I grow massive in an instant. My skin swells and expands with fat. I can’t take it. I can’t stand it. And yet, I eat too much every day. My skin stretching. My mind creaks like it is about to bust open, break apart, and sink inside the dark sea of my mind. I am trapped.


I constantly think about how things would be right now if I had dive something different. What if I really did run away and live in the streets like I wanted to/should have? Would I have been worse off than I am now? I hate to say that I have a feeling that I would have been beret off on the streets than in that house or the other one. I think there would have been less emotional trauma if I had just left before it all went to hell. But how was i supposed to know that my mother would snap and disown her own child and send her off to be abused and stand back to watch the abuse. 
What if I had told someone? What would have become of myself and my sisters? How would my dad be? 
What would have happened if she did put me in foster care like she said she wanted? What if she thought it was worth the effort and filed those papers? Where would I be? Would I be more broken than I am now? 
What would have happened if I didn’t get out when I did? How would I be if I didn’t experience a world where my mother had no rule? Would I even be here to contemplate this? 
What would have happened if the doctors put me in hospital when they wanted to without my parents decision? Would I still be there today? Would I still suffer from this awful disorder?
All of these questions I will never have answers to. And maybe I’m thankful for that. Because I wouldn’t want to know what it would be like to be more broken than I am and I wouldn’t want to know if I’d be happier either. 
The choices I’ve made have made me become the person I am now. Even if I don’t like who I am just yet, I’m constantly working on improving myself and trying to love myself. Maybe I am here because this is where I’m supposed to be.

I forgot…

Every time I go to eat or even think about eating there is this chorus in my head chanting “Fat, fat, fat, fat. Fat. Fat. FAT. FAT.” It echos in my skull almost constantly. 

I had forgotten what this was like. I had forgotten that sound, the voice, everything. I forgot the torture. But I know now. I remember. 


why is it so difficult to function? Why is it so hard not to cry on the car ride to J’s house because I know I’m going to have to eat dinner? Why do I even want to cry over having to eat dinner in the first place? Why is my first reaction after putting something high in calorie or ‘bad’ or ‘not safe’ in my mouth is to either swallow and purge it or chew it and spit it? Why does my body have so much fat on it? Why do I hate being called healthy? Why do I look healthy? I feel so sick. I can’t do this.

It’s becoming so hard not to purge after I eat. It’s becoming hard not to cut again. It’s becoming really really fucking hard not to bash myself into a pulp against the nearest wall or corner in my house. I can’t stand this. It’s becoming so fucking hard to look at my body. I’m putting off showers as much as possible. I wish it was winter so I could wear sweatshirts and sweatpants and not have to deal with my body or look at it. but summer means I have to see it every goddamn second of the day. 

I can’t do this anymore.


This will never go away. I will always be faced with this every time I wake up and every time I go to sleep. It will never end. 

Every year on my birthday I am faced with this reality. That I haven’t gotten any better. That I’m still fucking stuck in this endless swamp of a black hole. I haven’t found my way out, in fact, I think I’ve gotten lost even deeper inside it each year. 

Yeah I may not have purged in two hundred and something days, but that’s nothing. that doesn’t mean a damn thing. the only thing keeping me from purging is knowing that if I do and break this streak now, I will have a full on breakdown. and I don’t have the time or place for that. I can’t do it.

because a breakdown for me isn’t some petty little sob in the corner in the dark for a few hours. It’s full on smashing my body into any and every sharp corner I can find, covering myself in bruises. It’s drinking more alcohol than my stomach can hold at one time. It’s swallowing too many pills at one time and choking them back up only to swallow them again. It’s slashing my skin with the nearest sharp object until I’m stumbling around slipping in my own blood because it’s dripped down my body onto the floor. It’s crying. It’s screaming. It’s full on self destruction. It’s not a war, it’s an attempted genocide. 

It’s attempting to break the outside as much as the inside already is.

It’s trying to destroy everything so there can be nothing left. 

This will never end. I still have to try not to cry in front of everyone when eating a meal. I have to hold back tears when I get told ‘are you sure that dress will fit you? It looks kinda small.” (only to find out later that the dress is too big for you anyway). I have to hold in my anxiety and fear and hatred at getting candy bars and food for my birthday. I have to hold in the tears and the anxiety as I take tiny bite after mechanical bite of the birthday cake that was specially made for me and my ‘restrictions’ -gluten free, vegan, raw, refined sugar free, grain free, etc. etc. etc.- It’s trying to hold in your tears when your boyfriend spoons and cuddles you and puts his hand on your stomach. It’s trying not to explode when yet another person comments on your ‘muscular’ thighs.

it’s a never ending labyrinth that I will never escape. 

I am trapped here.