What really sucks is having to go to work and interact with people and function when all you want to do is curl up in a ball on the floor and cry and hurt yourself until your body just gives up and you stop existing.
You told me once that you would break my heart.
I asked you not to be such a goddamn
cliche, but then you left me because part
of you was still broken. You say some man
pried open the cracks of you, dug holes where
once there were none, so now you just cannot
love me how I deserve, and darling, therein
lies the problem: you can you can you can
you can you can you can you can you can.
Your reasons why are no good reasons why.
We said we should not fall in love and then
we showed each other our most quiet
scars: my wrists, your upper thighs, and now you say
this too easily: you say you cannot stay.
Things are hard right now. For some reason my eating disorder and depression seem really appealing, ugh, forever romanticizing my mental illnesses. But I don’t want to go back to hating my body to the point of not meeting my basic needs, to treatment, a rigid food schedule, only knowing people with mental illness (because while it can be supportive, surrounding myself with only these people ultimately is detrimental to my health), to weighing myself constantly (on a scale I have to hide because I shouldn’t have a scale in the first place) and to letting that number rule my life, to hating every minute of life, to suicide attempts and hospital bills, to losing friends, to withdrawing from school or being on academic probation or warning, to not being a fully functional human. I can’t kind of have an eating disorder, like I’m fooling myself into thinking I am now. I can’t kind of struggle and be half committed to recovery.
I’m not going to go back to that. So I’m going to get better. I will recover.