i stayed up last night, not entirely by choice. but i took the time to "reflect". i want insight so damn much, but i never seem to have the patience to find it in myself. i spent hours under my blanket with a flashlight, writing about how i "feel", yet i still felt as confused and useless as usual. i always get stuck on those hypothetical "what if i fuck up again?" questions, the large scratchy letters making up words that provide no meaningful help.
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journal excerpt
i've been trying to come up with reason why i am "sick"
and i often find myself drifting back to a wish that i could've been so small that i'd been close to death before i went into treatment. maybe because it would scare me and let me experience enough hell to want to get better or maybe because i want to experience a death of some kind.
kate sent me a post her friend wrote about recovering. she said she entered treatment with a pulse of 43. i was jealous that i was not so strong. angry at myself for not having the strength to just not eat. if anything... that is disgusting. a true reason to hate myself
i used to think i was small or at least small enough, even after the days of "skinny mini" and "bird legs". though i never thought i was pretty. but now i look back at those pictures and think i was too round, that my face was a circle, that middle and high school me was uglier than i imagined.
so where does it come from? how does self hatred learn to manifest itself into an eating disorder. what makes us "tick"? and what makes us cling to it like a security blanket. it obviously isn't keeping us safe. it feels like shit.
why make yourself feel like shit when you already feel like jumping out a window?
talk about counter-intuitive.
1 comment:
i used to write and write and so much of it was worth while. i also used to paint and draw and i made such pretty things. i know you still think i do write and make pretty things . . but something has left me and i know the feeling of longing for insight
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