“Courage” by Superchick

***May be triggering to those of you who have suffered or currently suffer from an eating disorder***

Alienated. I literally have no friends anymore. One of my best friends is living in a hotel because her mother is a psycho bitch, so I never get to see her. The other best friend has a 1-year-old child and works full time, so I never get to see her. And the third best friend I cut ties with over a month ago because she causes too much pain and trauma. I. Am. Alone.

Depressed. It seems that I rarely smile. When I do, it’s usually fake. I put on my imaginary face every day that I go to class and every night that I work. I don’t think anyone sees through it. But if they looked me deep in the eyes, they would see the torment that I am going through inside.

Fat. I feel so fucking disgusting. I have been eating like such a fucking slob lately. All of the weight that I lost a couple of months ago has just piled back on. I need to work on that again. I need to eat healthier - eat less - exercise more. Ha. Exercise. I hate that fucking word. Maybe I should just go back to starving myself. Yeah, I was tired and cold and had constant stomach cramps, but it sure as hell worked.

Anxious. My anxiety level is always intact. Lately I’ve been having to take more and more Klonopin wafers, and over the stupidest shit - like someone cutting me off while I’m driving.

Stressed. School fucking sucks right now. I have two midterms next week, an 8-page paper, a creative project, 20 hours of service learning, a 1-page paper every other day, and hundreds of pages to read. That’s not even all of it. Because of school, I chose to only work Saturdays and Sundays, so I’m getting shit money. If I quit smoking, I’m sure it wouldn’t bother me so much, but I’m not going to quit smoking any time soon. So pretty much my paycheck covers cigarettes and gas. That’s it.

Helpless. I’m pretty sure I am always going to be the way that I am. After all, this has been going on for over seven fucking years now. Hospitalizations, medications, psychologists, psychiatrists, self-injury…Will I EVER be “okay?” The good news is that I have not cut myself in 397 days: The longest that I have gone without doing so in that 7-year period. The bad news is that I still punch things and fuck up my hand. Not very frequently, but I do.

I feel on the brink of a breaking point. Of melting down. Giving up. Saying, “Fuck it all!” and not giving a shit anymore. Dropping out of school (even though I am 1 semester away from getting my Bachelors). Not eating again. Cutting myself as much as I fucking want to, WHICH I REALLY FUCKING WANT TO RIGHT NOW.

But I can’t give up. I can’t say, “Fuck it all.” If I do, I’m just hurting everyone around me. And I would never want anyone to hurt as bad as I do.

They’ve been through it with me before.

I can’t put them through this again.
I just can’t do it.

But for how long?

God, I want to cut so bad.

I do not want to be afraid.
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in.
I’m tired of feeling so numb.
Relief exists - I found it when
I was cut.

“A Line Allows Progress, A Circle Does Not” by my absolute FAVORITE band of ALL TIME - Bright Eyes

You figured me out.

I’m like a leaf in the wind.

I try to find myself,

But end up lost in the end.

Had a GREAT day yesterday. My boyfriend and I drove all over town running errands, then came home and relaxed, watched TV, and had a few beers together.

Until I got on Facebook. My boyfriend (I’ll call him “C”) was sitting beside me because we were just watching a YouTube video together. Well I received a FB message from a guy that I used to be fuck-buddies with about two years ago. All his message said was, “How’s it going stranger?” However, because FB is fucking STUPID, it showed the last message that I had sent this guy as well, which said - “I miss your fat cock,” sent in December of 2009.

When C saw this, he felt awkward and upset and walked away. I let him be alone for a while while I sat outside and smoked. When he came outside, I told him that we needed to talk about what happened. So we did. He wasn’t mad at me because he knew that the message was so old, but he still felt bothered by it. I don’t blame him; I would too.

Our relationship has definitely been rocky. We dated, then we broke up, then we sort of dated, then we finally “officially” dated. Neither of us know when that “official”ness actually started, so we kind of made up an anniversary date. That anniversary date will be 2 years in October. Seeing as how I sent that message to the other guy in December of 2 years ago, it kind of changes our whole “anniversary” idea. An anniversary is just a day, but it’d be nice if we could actually have one.

The FB message brought back a lot of really, REALLY shitty memories:

- How I used to sleep with as many guys as I could just to get some sort of attention and feel liked; feel ANYTHING at all

- All of the physical, sexual, verbal, and emotional abuse that I took from my ex-boyfriend

- How I used drugs and alcohol on a daily basis to cope with my feelings of emptiness and pain

- How I was cutting myself every day, several times a day, and how none of the guys that I fucked gave a shit that they were pinning wounded arms and wrists down to a dirty mattress

The memories continued to build up inside of me, causing a pain that I cannot even put into words. The urge to cut was so intense that it took all of my will to not give in.

After C and I finished talking, he took a shower. While he was in the shower, I cried. I screamed into my pillows. I clenched my fists. I beat myself. Repeatedly. On my upper left arm. Over and over and over again. I counted every beating - reps of 21 punches at a time. The pain felt SO good.

And now today I have to wear my longest-sleeved short-sleeve shirt to cover the intense bruises. C doesn’t know, but he’ll find out. And I’m sure he’ll find out tonight. He is the only person who sees all of me. Then again, I beat myself in a very visible place, which was fucking stupid on my part.

I feel guilty. I feel ashamed. I feel like a FUCK-UP.

All I can say to myself is - “At least you didn’t cut.”