will this be the one? when i summon the courage it prostrate my strength on the edge of infinity. i spent time reading other blogs and processing what was said. it’s so hard to know if they really feel the happy b.s. they deal out or if they are as agonized on the inside as i am.
i once could put the well-rehearsed smile on my face, give away laughter in surplus, and feign happiness to exhaustion. but i’ve given that up. i don’t even try to be normal anymore and i fear that is a sign of where i am emotinonally. i fear i don’t even pretend because there is just nothing on the other side of the pretense; no hope, no positivity, no possibility that one day i will not have to pretend.
it pains me through and through and past the haughty but naive corners of my heart. i want more. i relate to so much i read on the blogs. it’s all me, but then not of its me. i want to write one of them and ask how they get through each moment without dying from the weight of the burden and the anonymous tag names we endure out of shame.
i’ve taken extensive lengths to protect my privacy; as much as it exists in cyberspace.
two nights ago D. and someone had sex. she didn’t know until it was reported to her. we are losing alot. even i am without knowledge of the night; but i know what she knows. for some reason, it brings tears to the eyes whose vision belongs to the one filtering the words put on “page.”
the stomach is sick, sick, sick. we have been throwing up every day, if not more than once a day. some times it is so sweet; other times it offers us nothing but the morbid notion something was left behind and we are still dirty and fat. but the times it is sweet… it is salve to a stubborn, incredulous wound. and i don’t care. i know it makes us sicker. but that’s the joy. purging, toward the end when we just refuse to stop, makes us literally nauseous from vomitting so hard and we know we did a good job. when we feel sick, nauseous, and squeamish FROM purging, we can relax. there are no traces left behind; we’ve been sufficiently punished; and we turn around and do it again. i hate it and love it at the same time.
but we suffer; however, juxtaposed with the slow, satisfying, all knowing death, who gives a fck?
does anyone see me, me, me. i be ltt
poison ivey on my upper eye lid. it is finally going away.
D. and I aren’t speaking. it’s always a fucking fight with him. always has to be some god damn catastrophe with him.
i went wrong in so many places.
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