Jumping on the Band Wagon

12 August 2013

I stayed up until almost 4 in the morning skyping and texting the ex boy. It brought up a lot of feelings I really feel like I shouldn't have brought up. I feel awful and miserable. I'm so confused. I hate the fact that I still love him. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I'm not going to get into a relationship right before I go to college on the 16^th. Besides, the reason I broke up with him in the first place was because of the long distance. Now that we're 5-6 hours apart instead of just 1 ½, I'd never see him. Ever. So there's no point. Besides, I'm probably going to go to college and find someone who's a much better fit for me, and who also makes me feel like I'm actually wanted and worth the fight. Someone who's more aggressive like me.

All that aside, I started restricting again. Seriously, consciously restricting. And by that I mean I tried. The only thing I've had to eat today was cookie dough at like 2. Which has a lot of calories, I know. And it sucks. But it's at least a start, right.

I don't have to justify myself to you.

Anyways. Now I'm having tea. I don't know what's for dinner. I'll only eat a little of it regardless. I'm sick of being fat, and now that I can't work out (my gym membership's gone since I'm going to college) I have to really work hard to keep my calories down. No more fat. Just skinny.

I've been chatting with Padfoot since yesterday. She's at full mental relapse and about half physical. And as much as it kills me on the inside because I know how much this sucks, I also know there's nothing I can do about it. It's between her and her therapist and her dietitian and her family and her disease. So c'est la vie. As bad as this sounds, I'm kind of a little relieved that I'm not the only one who couldn't recover.

I just hope I get legitimately skinny this time, like she did. She got down to 85 and she's only a little shorter than me. I don't think I ever even broke 130.

This time I'm going to get down to 120. Then 115. Then 110. Then 105. That's what I want right now. 105.

I'm going to be a weird fucking eating disorders counselor. I'll be studying to treat people who have them while I'm making mine worse.

Fuck me, man. Fuck me.

Cheers, kiddos.

>Sparks<

11 August 2013

11 August 2013

Recovery

(n.) The hardest part of an addiction.

Relapse

(v.) To slip back into the addiction.

(n.) The point in time when recovery fails.

(syn.) See “present-tense.”

Addiction

(syn.) See “hell.”

The demons that we find within ourselves are always the hardest to face. They are the most deeply embedded and the hardest to get rid of. We can't exorcise them by ourselves, but they won't let us call out for help. So we end up trapped in the hell of our minds, being devoured from the inside out by the evil spirit that has inhabited our fragile bodies. Such is the nature of possession.

People tell me all the time that Rome wasn't built in a day. That I have to keep working, keep trying. Keep going. Eventually I'll have the support, the infrastructure, the beauty and stability and magic. Just like Rome. But there's a slight problem with that analogy.

But eventually, Rome fell.

I've been in relapse for a while now. Mentally, I'm all the way back where I started. Physically it couldn't be farther than the truth. I don't know how much I weigh; probably somewhere between 145 and 150 pounds. I have so many overuse injuries I can't move without pain. But I can't find the will to restrict, either. So I end up just hating myself, wishing for a skinnier me to come and transform my body overnight. I hate myself because that can't happen.

Rome wasn't built in a day.

It was chiseled out of stone, out of earth, formed in the way it was wanted. Designed by the will of the beings who controlled it.

I will form myself, chisel myself down from stone until I'm the proper shape and size. Until there's nothing left. I will turn myself into a masterpiece.

I will be Rome.

And eventually, I will fall.