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.

I tried my hardest
to make you feel
something, anything.

But in the end,
Out of all the things
I made you feel
You only remembered the bad things.

Like the time I
made you cry
when you peeled off my pants
after I had crawled into your bed
and you saw all the
blood and slices in my skin.

You remembered the time
I made you yell so loud
that the neighbors came up
from downstairs to check up on you
because you found out I was smoking
because my cigarettes fell out
of my sweatshirt pocket.

Or the time I
passed out on your bed
shaking and sweating and barely breathing.

You were scared,
I could feel it, sense it.
I tried to scream apologies at you
but you couldn’t hear
over the chattering of my teeth.

Like the time you couldn’t
look at me, my face,
for a day because I
made myself throw up
that meal you bought
special, just for me.

I screamed apologies,
I tried to breathe them
into your lungs,
but it turns out
I was just drowning you
instead.

I’m sorry.

But you forgot the good
things that I made you feel.

Like when you spent an
entire day with our friends
at the mall, searching for
the perfect valentines day present.
And when you finally found it
you couldn’t keep that
stupid grin off your face
until you handed it to me.

It was a stuffed rabbit
I slept with it every night.
Even after we broke up.
The first time
and the second time.
I didn’t stop sleeping
with that bunny
until I had found someone else.

Or the time we went
to that concert
and we sang and shouted
our favorite song
at each other and
with the crowd all around us.
That was also the
weekend that we lost
our virginity to each other.

You said that virginity wasn’t
that big of a deal.
But i could tell that
it meant a lot more
to you than you let on.
That’s okay,
it meant a lot
to me too.

But you don’t remember
all of those things.
You only remember
the hurt that I
never meant to
inflict on you.

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.

torture

I want to kick and scream and cry. I want to smoke until my lungs hurt and burn. I want to curl up under the searing hot water of a shower and cry my heart out for hours as the water burns the sins and mistakes from my skin. I want to evaporate into the air. I want to curl up under a nice warm blanket and disappear from the world. I don’t want to exist. I want to feel the physical pain of existing instead of the mental torture. 

the memories have been plaguing my mind and infiltrating my dreams at night. my sleep is cut short from the fast paced heart beats and the ringing in my ears and the dizzying spin in my head. I can’t think straight because I’m still running. running from everything that I thought I left behind, but can never really be left behind. my memories and past plague me and stalk me. They hunt me down during the best times of my life and wrack their claws through everything, bringing the illusion back down. I can’t scream. My voice is gone. It was taken long ago by people with names unspoken. I can hardly breathe. I can feel their grip on my throat as it gets tighter and tighter and less and less air can escape my lungs. I’m trapped in this ever living loop of horror. 

unsafe and selfish

I feel selfish. For wanting to tear my hair out. and rip my skin off. and bruise and break this body. I have to put my mental state and my mental break down on hold because the family can’t handle more than one thing going on at once and because mine is mental it’s selfish. Like I can choose to let this happen to me or not. I want to. explode. implode. burn. break. bruise. cut. destroy. this body of mine. I want to tear down the world as I know it. I want it to be no more. I want to be alone in a little white room with a little plastic bracelet with a little cup with little pills in it. I want to be safe. That’s the only place I can be safe. From the world. From my life. From my family. From myself. I’m just selfish for wanting to feel safe.

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. 

Yearning.

I can feel each scar burning on my skin as they did the night i made them. The intensity on some of them is so great it is almost unbearable. It is as if my blood is made from lava and is pooling in those spots, waiting to be re-released and flow to the ground like a waterfall of blood. 

I’m squirming in my seat, uncomfortable with anything and everything. My skin feels like it is a beast of its own mind and it is crawling and wishing to be splayed open. To release this beast from within me. 

But the beast can only be released if the opening was done just perfectly. It is never done just perfectly. so the beast grows ever impatiently inside my veins. Getting angrier and more restless with each failed attempt.

I can see the would have been wounds on my skin. clean and bloodless like I just washed it clean and right before the blood starts pouring from it again. The skin splayed open, parted to let the air in, to help me breathe. After a cut I’ve always felt there was more oxygen in my blood stream than any other time in my life. It was an invigorating feeling. But the burning soon takes over and the oxygen seeps back out of the wound as it closes up. 

All those would be wounds on my skin are screaming, all at once in their own voice. the constant chatter in my brain is making my brain crawl while my skin crawls its own way as well. I can feel the burning of the lava under each would-be cut and the searing hotness of the cold blade ripping through my skin. 

I’m trying not to hyperventilate from all the things going on, all the imaginary movement on my body and in my brain. It is so much to handle. Almost too much to handle.

Awakened.

Reading that book was a bad idea. I should have never started it. I didn’t know it would have these things in it though, so I can’t blame myself for that. But this books has turned on a switch in my body or my head or somewhere. It’s released a creature in my skin and it crawls around scraping at my skin from the inside, licking it in places to make it burn, slipping poison into my blood to hallucinate these images of my skin carved in just the right way to release this beast. But I’d have to get it right the first time or I will have to try again, over and over until it is right and the creature can crawl free.

But that’s just it. It is never done just right, the creature is always there lurking, it can be captured and caged for a while, but it always manages to start wandering the empty corridors of my veins. Making want to tear open my skin and dig the creature out from my veins, make my body weep it out through a red water fall of blood onto the floor.

I should have never started this book. I don’t know what I’ve awakened.

100.

100 pounds of body mass.

100 reasons to die.

100 reasons to live.

100 reasons to relapse further.

100 reasons to recovery.

100 thoughts running though my head at any given moment.

100 times a day I remind myself how gross I am. 

100 times an hour I think about food.

100 reasons I should just kill myself.

100 reason to just keep trying. 

100 reasons to leave.

100 reasons to stay.

100 excuses.

100 pounds too heavy.