Wednesday, 8 October 2008


I have been sitting in my room all evening, thinking, planning, reminiscing. Out of nowhere, it all seemed to make sense. I've been avoiding thinking about the last few months. The last 2 years. Ever since I went to New York for treatment...all the time that has passed between now and then. The amazing people I met, the amazing taste of a life without anorexia I had briefly, the amazing opportunities that were handed to me, and how fucked up. Time, after time, after time.

I miss New York more than I can say. Not a day goes by when I don't think about it, dream about it, ache for it. I miss what I had- my friends, my family, therapy, goals, and most importantly, hope.

I've avoided thinking about it in depth because at this point, it's dangerous. I tried, and almost succeeded, to kill myself 3 weeks ago. I genuinely did want to die, and I still do. I don't see a way out of this. There is too much reality tied in with my emotions now. This isn't a chemical depression- this is the cold, hard reality of the choices I made, the mistakes I made, the trail of destruction/pain/heartache/anger I have left behind me.

I don't think I have the strength to make another attempt. And that is almost worse. It wasn't a decision I came to easily, or a path that I wanted to walk down. I simply saw no alternative out of this hellish existence I created for myself.

I want so much, and it hurts. It hurts because I can't HAVE it. There is no tangible reason for WHY I can't have it- it's not overly ambitious, not extravagant in any way/shape/form. I have tried, and tried, and tried again to make it work, make it happen, make my dreams come true.

Accepting that it may never become a reality for me is not sitting well.

I feel shaken, agitated, angry, hopeless. I sit and I drift off into the fantasy of what life could be like. I feel powerful, happy, excited. I think about the past and tears run down my face, my body cold and limp. I stare at the ceiling and count. One, two, three, four. Anything to make the memories stop. I count calories, protein grams, fat grams, sodium, sugar, fibre. I calculate weight in kilos, pounds. BMI, RMR. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Anything to block out the relentless stream of questions in my head: "why did I do...", "why did that...", "how can I...".

I want so much and yet so little at the same time. My brain is split by conflict that I need to resolve. Somehow, somewhere, someday.

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