My head never shuts down.
If I could only find the switch, turn myself off, I could start living in the real world again, I'm convinced of it... but maybe there isn't a switch. Something I saw on jd's blog struck a real chord with me, I thought it was perfect:
For a head so full of words and emotion, so much of my life is consumed by numbers.
the numbers game
I can't remember the last time I forgot about numbers in my head. I must have been so young.
I wonder sometimes, about the whole genetics argument - that some people are more predisposed to eating disorders than others - we have the genes for it so to speak. Was I born this way?
No... I'm sure I can't have been, but at the same time I'm acutely aware that I've always had the symptoms and the character and personality for it. I was never like other little girls. I tortured myself mentally for not looking perfect. I tortured myself for being 'fat' when I was a skinny little 8 year old. If I didn't always have an eating disorder, I certainly always had an intense hatred of my appearance and was highly anxious because of it.
This morning I went shopping with my mum - just like I used to have to do when I was younger.
I had the same anxiety and panic. I fought back tears as I stood in the mirror, despising myself for not getting thinner, I flung clothes around my room in distress and punched and slapped my arms and thighs for the pain relief.
Just like when I was a teenager.
Everything's the same.
Every last thing is the same.
My putrid body is the same.
Things like today really put it into perspective. The way I used to cry in floods of tears in the car all the way to work, the way I would have to try on everything in my wardrobe to find something that didn't make me look fat, the way I would have to avoid mirrors to stop myself from having a panic attack...
Surely the only cure is beauty.
How else can you fix someone like that?
In the last few days I've been evaluating my relationship with Alex.
Dear Alex; I really couldn't ask for anyone more loyal and devoted and caring. I really couldn't.
But. There's still a terrible, gaping gap between us - a chilling space of void that neither of us can cross - not only because he cannot feel it, but also because I know it would suck him under like a vortex.
I may have been crying all day and all evening, but when I talk to him on the phone, he'd never know. Even if I told him, he'd have no way to comfort me.
If I'm honest with myself, I know, this is never going to work. We're kidding ourselves. He's young, he doesn't know any better. He's never seen me when I'm depressed, when I'm on an edge. He's never witnessed tears rolling uncontrollably down my face or the anxiety when I need to self-harm. He doesn't really know what it's like to love someone with an eating disorder who is so bent on self-destruction. He's never had to live with me.
I'm worn-out, broken and beyond repair. I'm never going to be able to play happy families.
I belong to another world.
When I lie in bed, I can feel that the walls of my heart are getting weaker.
Every time I stand at the platform, as my train approaches, I stand at the edge and stare down at the tracks. How easy it would be to take one more step. One more step, and it won't hurt anymore.
You could save him from yourself.
But I am too selfish. I love him, in all his innocent and unblemished perfection. He brings me joy like I've not had in a very long time. Real Joy.
I cry as I write this, because I want that joy so much.
But I can't have it, not really, not in the long run; I will destroy it. That's what I do: I destroy things.
There is a perfect girl out there somewhere for him. I can lie when we're together, I can pretend to be perfect, but I'm not.
I'm seeing him on Friday for the first time in two weeks. He's been revising hard for his uni exams and they end on Thursday. So I'm treating him to a surprise on Friday evening. I've made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant in Covent Garden, and then I've booked tickets to see the Lion King in the West End.
He says he loves me and thinks I'm perfect as I am.
It means nothing to me. I want to clear my body of every trace of food and channel water through it every day before then. I have a perfect new red dress. It's not worth the torture being fat.
It's really not worth the fucking torture and tears in front of the mirror.
And yes, stranger, I know it's you. But without your name, I couldn't believe it. No name. Gone.
Really. It's not enough to say I miss you.
Just tell me you are happy. Please give me that closure and peace of mind if it is true.
I pray that you are.
A quote from 'Anonymous' on Pasco's blog:
''Dear Pasco...you are so like me that I suppose I said to you what I wanted to say to myself... You do disgust me. You lead this messed up life. You're a waste.
You are a wasted girl.
And so am I.''
Hillary Clinton meme
9 months ago