i wish i had died i wish i had died i wish i had died i should have let anorexia kill me i wish i was dead i want to die
They say to use coping phrases, that feeling full is not the same as being fat, but it is, I’m full to the point of feeling sick, I’m full because I’m fat, I binge because I’m fat, binging makes me fat and keeps me fat and I’m always going to be fat. They say to use opposite action, because these emotions do not align with the facts of my situation but they do: I’m disgusting and so I feel disgust – I disgust myself. They say to meditate, because it will calm the mind and body and soothe the soul and is a form of self care, but I don’t want to emerge from my bed, from my depressive shell – I don’t want to face reality.
thin people are perfect people thin people are perfect people thin people are perfect people i will never be perfect if i am not thin i am worth nothing if i am not thin
I am worth nothing. My worth is inversely proportional to a number on the scale. The number is massive, it is a number that horrifies Ana, that horrifies me. It is a number we never thought we would allow ourselves to reach.
where are your bones thin people have bones and thin people are perfect people i need to be thin if i am to be perfect i need to be perfect i must be perfect where are your bones where are your bones stupid girl where are your bones she cried
These thoughts are disordered. I know that. This stream of consciousness, this emotional purging – it doesn’t make the thoughts go away. Just like it doesn’t change the calories I consumed, too many to even count, too much that I can’t even remember what exactly I ate. I like to think that writing helps, but I’m not sure of the truth of that. It helps me manipulate people, I guess. Helps me manipulate myself into thinking I need to manipulate people to better shimmy into the BPD box. I had a close friend, one of the first I revealed my borderline personality diagnosis to, tell me that the doctors are wrong. That I can’t possibly be a borderline because borderlines are manipulative and awful creatures, and they don’t have friends, and I have friends, therefore I cannot be a borderline. I ignored this comment. But the words stung, and have subtly weaved their way into my days, into my blog posts, poisoning the people I’ve met and scaring those who know me in real life, as more than a name and a gross photo. I’m being manipulative because borderlines are supposed to be manipulative and acting like a “proper” borderline will help people realise my diagnosis is accurate. Which is essentially the very definition of manipulative. I am a shell of a person, endlessly adopting traits that I shed like skins. A chameleon.
I think I need to quit my job. Bakery + bulimia does not go so well together. Not well at all. I actually slipped the B-word (bulimia) into a conversation with my parents the other day – I was met with silence. If I was thinner they would have believed me (although, they never noticed the anorexia, so perhaps not), they would have believed the scars are a sign of true pain, the exhaustion is a symptom of emotional unrest, the three jobs I work to pay for seemingly endless appointments I attend that I need but don’t see the benefit of, and feel guilty over because I’m wasting my paychecks on tears and misguided guidance instead of spending it on getting drunk like I’m supposed to as a struggling student, except I’m not (financially) struggling, and I don’t drink alcohol, and I probably never will. I have never been drunk.
I should stop that. But my brain is foggy from the sugar.
These thoughts are disordered, but recognising that won’t change them, nor the fact that tomorrow I will restrict and I will exercise and I will punish myself in any way I know how, and rely on bad coping mechanisms and add to the messy collection of scars that adorns my wrists and thighs like some sort of deranged art series in various stages of decay.
All I can do is pray, even if God isn’t listening tonight. I hope He is. I hope He hears me. If suicide is a sin, does suicide exclude me from His kingdom?
I need things to be different. But I’m scared. I can’t remember not having an eating disorder. My childhood was anorexia, my adolescence bulimia. I’m scared for what it would mean to lose another part of me, to lose Ana. I need her. She needs me. We have a somewhat strained symbiotic relationship.
Goodnight. I wish it was goodbye. But I’ll be here tomorrow. I will. Probably.