That whole statement “it’s so hard to talk when all you want to do is die” or however it goes, has never been more true and relatable than last night. i’m doing really badly. I hate myself and my body so much. I’m more than positive the scale is broken, if it’s not I’ve lost another 1/2 a pound since yesterday. which i’m pretty sure is impossible. I look bigger than ever. and that’s not just my imagination, my belly is swollen and bloated painfully and my clothes are tight and I can’t stand it.

I’m supposed to go to an important even with J later and dress nicely and the dress I wanted to wear, I don’t think I’ll be able to because of how bloated my stomach is. I don’t really have anything else nice to wear. unless I wear my black high waist pants with a sweater and my blazer? I don’t know. I just feel so huge and disgusting.

I couldn’t have sex yesterday with J at all, I felt to disgusting to get even remotely into it. I cried after trying because it’s so fucked up how i feel so awful about my body that I can’t even have sex. i’m just miserable and disgusting.

I don’t know what’s going to happen if I lose more weight, relapse further, or get worse. I’m just hoping J will stick around through it.

Into the water.

Taking a bath has become more and more appealing, and more and more terrifying. I want to turn the water up to the hottest my skin can stand, right before the blisters start. I want the heat to rise as my blood pressure drops. I want my vision to sway. I want my consciousness zapped away and float up with the rising steam. I want my unconscious head to slip under the scalding water. I want the breath from my lungs to escape into the water, leaving a trail of bubbles to reach the surface as I sink further and further into the tub. All my breath gone from my lungs so I can never return to consciousness again. Slip into the dark. 

Suicidal Ideations.

I’ve been having suicidal ideations lately. And that’s not the part that scares me. The part that scares me is that I don’t care if I committed. I don’t care what anyone else would think or feel about it. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care what they would feel about it or about me if I killed myself. I don’t care about being an inconvenience to them. I don’t feel like no one cares about me like all those times I was suicidal in the past. I know there are people who care about me and would miss me if I did it. But I don’t care.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal at the moment. I don’t want to kill myself. I’d like to live a bit longer and see things through. I can see the possibility in the future now, I never could when I was suicidal before. I can now. But that doesn’t stop these thoughts from forming.
They mold themselves inside my mind. They slowly form themselves and take shape before my eyes. The details becoming clearer and clearer every moment. I can see the whole thing play out before my eyes. Every detail is there. Every thought, every action, every mark, every word, every step. It’s all there. I can see it all like it’s playing on the big screen. It’s a sick and demented and warped movie that I have no choice but to suffer and be tortured by watching it. By watching my death caused by my own hands.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to act upon these thoughts, but I find them comforting. The fact that if I wanted to, I had a plan for a way out.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. But I wanted to document this feeling, these thoughts.