It is raining. For the first time in ages, it is raining. The sky is gray, the rain is gray, everything is gray. I like everything that is gray -- my soul is gray. The smell of the rain, the fresh air, the water falling from the sky, the wind blowing, taking my thoughts far, far away, where no one can take them.. Dogs barking, rain pouring, hitting the ground and the metal roofs. I hear the church's bells. Eight o'clock. Friday morning.
The candles are lit. Magnolia and cinnamon candles, spreading their scent. They are the only light source, except for the daylight, shyly hiding behind my curtains.. being held there for so long. I'm sitting here, typing, enjoying the grandiosity of the candles, the feeling of safety the curtains give me, the dark room. The dark, wet weather. I could go outside and dance in the rain, wet my socks, wet my hair. I could do all those.
It is Friday morning. I am supposed to be at school. Instead, I am at home (no -- I'm not skipping school. I have reasons for being at home), surrounded by candles and rain, waiting for nine laxatives to kick me down sometime soon, waiting for the horror, waiting for the dark.
I open the window. For the first time in ages, I can breathe.
I am afraid of sleeping at night. I am scared that all the things I've done during the day will be forgotten, that I'll get over everything and be fine. I do not want to be fine, because I remember the time when I used to be fine - days full of thoughts and joy and tears and lies, stolen kisses, subtle glances, never-ending phone calls, one-minute phone calls, fake friends, not cutting, not eating, not throwing up, not taking laxatives, not sitting on window sills.
It is weird, at least to me, that there was a time when I knew many things about eating disorders - people, diagnosis criteria, songs - but not from my own experience. Now I can tell you in one thousand words every single feeling that I have had for almost a year now: Pain, fake and blind happiness, love, disgust, hate, anger, despair, sadness, trust, doubt.
May 8th, I scribbled in my notebook, "Didn't eat.. anything." Same thing for the enxt two days. May 16th and the following two days, "NO FOOD." I ate a soup on the next two days because my heart was feeling funny, I had a weird pain chest and was tired of arguing with my family. Those were the days I wish I had fucked myself awake, opened my eyes and told myself, "Bitch, you don't want to go down that road." Every single day since then was full of doubt and disgust and "You are fat!" because "fat" is no longer the way one looks, but more an emotion. Feeling sad? Fat. Angry? Fat. Happy? Fat. Not feeling anything? Fat. Disgusted? Fat. Betrayed? Fat. anything? Fat. And I no linger know what it means, it's just the way I see myself and feel.
I obviously know that I am not fat. Not from a medical point of view, at least. If anyone thinks "Look at that fat fuck," it's totally fine with me. I know plenty who think "Look at that skinny bitch, I want to be like her, super-tall and slim." It is the feelings I have (and often not have) that represent the image in the mirror, the number on the scale, whether no food at all is actually too much food.
I have lost myself and miss my old self. Still, I won't make anything to get myself back, to get myself together. It's to much of an effort, and it would be useless. My old self is dead. It is sleeping..
The sun is blinding my eyes as it is setting. I go and go and go without stopping. I take the longest route. The thoughts are running through my head, songs are running through my head. There is so much noise. so much noise that I can't hear my own thoughts. I am going faster, faster. Faster than him. Faster than her. I almost start running, running from something that could be following me, something I am afraid of.
I need to be there by 5:40. I'll be there. I will be there. The faster I go, the more I feel I am being held back by something. Big, quick steps - why can I not go faster? Faster, faster. I'll be there, even if I have to die on my way there. Nothing can stop me. Calves hurt. Ankles are paralyzed. My feet are losing control, my legs fall brutally on the ground. I do not feel anything anymore. "Where are all the wannarexics at? Once yo' thin, yo' still see fat." Play, replay, play, replay, why do you not stop? Go away. Get out, get out. "I need my mind to be empty and I know I can empty it why does it not work why won't it work why are these random words flying through my head I know I make no sense thank God no one can hear me I want home I want out I want it to be over and die and be over and everything and why are the thoughts rushing through my head why get out get out." Turn left, go up the hill. I am getting tired. I almost run past the people, they might wonder what I am running from. "The tougher it is, the more you need to push yourself. Break the fucking limit." By the time I am there, I can't feel anything. My legs hurt, I am screaming, not breathing.
Last Thursday was very unexpected. To make a long story short, I ate for the first time in four days - some pudding and 2 strawberries. My father asked me, "Are you eating again?" Screw this, I thought, going into the kitchen, dropping what was left of my last strawberry and running upstairs. Go into my room, take blade, go into the bathroom, lay down on the cold floor. Mother knocking at the door, "Get out! I want to talk to you!" "Well, I do not want to!" I said and cut. And again and again. Superficial cuts, I must admit. Mother leaves. I get out. Put the blade back. Call boyfriend. "So what if he asked you if you were eating again," he said, ignoring the "[..]the first time in four days" bit. Fine, dearest. I start crying, he does not notice. I hang up, start crying loudly; but trying not to make much noise. Mother comes in. "GET OUT!" "But why are you crying?" "Don't come in!" Fear surrounds me. "But -- I want to talk to you!" "I told you to get out! I don't want to talk!" "I can't do this anymore! I'm dying here!" Runs out, starts crying and yelling. Oh poor thing.
Father comes in. "What is your problem, huh? I'm sick of everything. I'm sick of your shit. What right do you have to yell at your mother? Who do you think you are? A girl who hasn't eaten since Sunday and is a bit offended when you ask her if she's eating again. Talk to me!" "I do not want to talk to you." "Oh, you do. You better do." "I do not." *Other shit he yelled at me which I can't remember* "These are things you learned from your friends, right? Those friends of yours." He gets out. Slams the door. Mother crying: "Do not mention that [food, eating, eating habits] to her, ever!" Dad: "But what the fuck is her problem?"
I cry and cry and cry. Mother comes in, crying. "I'm leaving. I have always loved you" "Ok, farewell." I like being mean to her. I like being mean to stupid people in general. And she left. I call my therapist. Once, twice, she does not answer. She calls me back. I tell her everything. She calls my mom, what time was it, 11 pm? She calls me back. "She is just taking a walk, she'll come back when she's feeling better." "Oh, okay. Thank you."
Drama queen. You failure. You even fail at leaving, you fail at being a total bitch. You whining and crying and complaining loser. We didn't talk to each other the next day. Saturday was okay. Today was fine. Still, stupid bitch.
She always has to come in and say something. It was my and my father's argument. Mine and his. She wasn't even there! Me and my father usually make up quickly, in a non-verbal non-anything way. Things just go back to normal. She, she's a fake.
I wanted to run away on Friday. Went to some place for an hour, just to see if anyone would call. I had everything planned out. Grandma calls. I don't answer, she calls dad. Dad calls. I don't answer, he calls mom. Mom calls. I don't answer, she calls therapist. Therapist calls. I answer. "She's alright," she'd tell to my mother. As I get back home, my dad would glare and ask me, "Where have you been?" "You said you were sick of my shit, and seeing how the only thing you see in me is shit, I just thought you were sick of me and thought I'd do you a favor and never return home." My plan was perfect! All the little details.
I thought it would be interesting to share what habits I developed during the last year, so I'm going to list them here. I wonder how many I come up with..
I do not intend to give any kind of tips - I think that any person who cuts or had an eating disorder could have come up with what I am writing below. They come naturally.
I always wear gloves. It's already March, and it's already warm outside, but I don't leave the house without my gloves on - sometimes I even wear them inside. they are fingerless, but they cover my cuts and scratches (from throwing up/replacement for cutting)
I usually wear socks to cover my cuts, even if it is very warm.
I eat bread crumbs with sugar to replace food when I want to eat, but eat anyways after some time.
I eat with my bare hands because using spoons, forks and knives makes the eating too "official" and "real".
I take laxatives on every Friday, because I don't get out of the house on Saturdays, which gives me.. time.
I let the water flow when I am throwing up to avoid being heard. Also, I do not wash my teeth right after that, because the acid will mess my teeth up.
I used to eat one package of gum per day, until I felt sick every time I chewed gum.
I never eat at school.
I always buy laxatives from different pharmacies, because I think people will know that I am misusing them, especially when I buy more than one box. I feel that people just.. know.
Ok, this one is funny. I take extra panties with me when I am at school, just in case I take laxatives and have a, how should we say, little accident.
The first thing I do in the morning is look in the mirror.
I get angry when people tell other people they are fat or have eaten too much.
When friends ask me for dieting tips, they are always amazed by how much I know about the subject.
When I go to the gym, I always work out until the "Calories burnt" number ends in 50 or 00.
I am almost sure there are more, but these are what I could come up with now.
I need to take a break again. It seems like this house, this building, is driving me insane. I will stay at my grandma's for the next week - she lives in a small apartment, I have my own little dark room there.
I'm sick of blood and vomit and food and laxatives. That's what everyday is like here. Eat, stick fingers down my throat, get scratches on my knuckles, feel disgusting, cut, feel good, sit on the window sill, watch the moon, freeze, get down, go to sleep, wake up at exactly 4 o'clock, walk through my room, go back to sleep.. start a new day.
It is exhausting me. I am tired to death, sick and tired, I want out. Soon. Quickly. Now.
I could say this is depressing. I used to eat very little during last summer. Starting May and all the way through June - that was the best month. I ate once every 3 days, felt sick, tired, dizzy, dead. I was afraid of my irregular heartbeats, of the chest pains, of the hair falling out.. I was cold in the middle of summer, I was wearing long sleeves. But you fucking know what? I was happy. My only concern was my body.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now? There's nothing left of me.
I have finally managed to edit this one part a little bit. The first chapter can be found here.
It was one of those nights again. One of those nights when food had touched my lips and run down my throat, just to get out the same way. I was afraid of my family hearing the noises. The choking. The coughing. The food as it hit the water and the water being flushed way too many times. I felt the taste of tomatoes. The acid sticking to my teeth. My throat hurting. Runny nose. Tears in my eyes. Heart racing...
I can't feel anything, my mind is filled with nothing, and I need to feel something. Something to fill me up. I take the pill in my hand. Small and white. I crumble it and put it on a paper, carefully bringing it beneath my nose. Are you ready? More than ever. Snort. Cough. Breathe in. Clean. Ignore the pain.
Take the broken glass and caress my ankles with it. Cold, sharp. Quickly moving you back and forth, back and forth, until you rip my skin. I am a dry ocean – something which used to be full, beautiful, but which is now just a bunch of nothing. Where did it all go? Where did it go? A thin, red line comes to surface. Blood.
I am a shadow haunting your soul in the middle of the night, never letting you sleep. Never sleeping myself. Never being able to close my eyes, and when I'll do... It will be forever. Never going to wake up... Never.
Why do I feel good when I'm doing these, when I know that it would hurt you if you knew? Why is it so hard to choose? Lying to you and hurting you, they are not so far away from each other. Because, by each of them, I am inevitably hurting myself. Confusion is invading me. Why would you, or anyone else, care about me? I know you have better things to do and have your own lives. I know it very well. All I am afraid of is that I will somehow push you away. That you will be gone because of me. Still, there are times when I am wondering if you are thinking of me. If you will call. If you ever think of me as I think of you.
Today is the last day of the Eating Disorders Awareness Week. Also, the 1st of March was Self Injury Awareness Day.
I don't know how to feel about this. I can't even feel anything. With my wrists cut from last Sunday, hands scratched from throwing up, 800 cals burnt in a work out, a mixture of eight or nine or ten white and orange little pills swallowed -- waiting to kick in at four o'clock in the morning. I am always awake at four o'clock, anyways. Always awake.. never able to sleep properly.
To that I should add that, on March 13th I'm having my first appointment with a psychiatrist. What if she'll give me a diagnose? What if she'll prescribe me pills? What if all this becomes real?
It won't be a fantasy anymore. Parents will know. People will know. Everyone will judge. But I'll keep faking it all. Faking happiness. Joy. Sadness. Anger. I'll never know if I'm faking it or if it's real. everything will be the same, there will be nothing special in my life. Happiness is usual. Sadness is usual. Cutting. Crying. Screaming. Not sleeping. Throwing up. Laxatives. It's going to be fun. It has always been.
But back to awareness. Be aware that these things are real. Be aware that, despite one's smile and laughter, there can be a lot more happening behind them. Be aware that it's not a game. Be aware that the common misconceptions of self harm and eating disorders are just that - misconceptions. Stop believing we're cutting for attention. Stop believing we're influenced by the media or that we all think we're fat.