One day more

I’ve been reading again, all my old books about the pain and suffering of the girls like me. Wintergirls

The ones stuck in the snow.

With the ice and shadows inside.

That old voice creeping back, the one that causes my  weight to drop down and down and down.

The reason I do sit ups for 3 hours pinching the fat on my arms and thighs and stomach.

The urge to curl up and shrink, take up less space, and time and other people’s thoughts.

Quietly quit and disappear.

The meds aren’t working, smiling feels like my face and heart are going to split in half.

Unlike before I’m fully aware of what I am doing.

Choosing to cut back, not eating certain food. Not gradual like before but a full on dive back in.

Binging because that’s what I do when I’m alone but not even feeling the need to anymore.

Feeling disgusted that I can’t even go 2 days without a pig out.

Feeling bone and skin and choosing to pull and squash the soft parts of my legs and hips and stomach.

Telling myself to listen to the voice that says I’m fat and gross and useless when I can run my fingers down my ribs like a xylophone.

I don’t want this to hurt the people I love but I can’t carry on fighting this myself.

5 years of this roundabout and swirling, whirling stabbing thoughts.

I’m tired and sick of trying to get better when nothing gets clearer or easier.

When I’m still lost.

When the pain of living is too great.

Maybe one day I will heal and laugh and be at peace.

Maybe one day I’ll find myself without this defining me.

One day

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