Chasing the Wind

I feel like my eating disorder makes me endless promises that it has no intention of keeping.  It dangles sparkling, shinning things in front of me and laughs as I chase it further and further down into the rabbit hole.  It whispers in my ear like a lover in the dark, telling me of all the wonderful things that we'll do together.  Perhaps the reason I'm so pissed off is because I'm just starting to realize that my ED has been mocking me all along- making promises of treasures that lie just ahead and laughing as it watches me die in the search.

This anger is new to me.  I'm mostly apathetic as my emotions are most closely related to that of a sociopaths but recently I've been feeling this overpowering, all consuming anger.  It's like something turned the embers inside my belly into scorching flames ready to burn away at any and all things it comes into contact with.  I can deal with sadness (restrict), I can deal with feeling overwhelmed (purge) and I can deal with happy when it seldom comes around, but unfortunately for me my anger manifests itself in angry, raging cuts blanketing my arms-a visual validation of sorts.

 I've recently begun writing on myself to try and quench my thirst to carve at my skin.  There must be something in my flesh, something innately ingrained into me, that I have unadulterated hatred for.  I think it must be the memories.  They are always there, like my ED, to remind me that my body is not mine, it's theres, and it nothing more than a series of entering and exiting.  They say our skin is our most basic barrier, that its purpose is to keep the good in and the bad out.  My skin is defective.

Remy

I have to get better. I refuse to let me life be about what goes in and out of my body.  But I know it's so much easier said then done.  But still let this be a testament to the fact that there is fight left in me.  My therapist told me to listen to the still small voice and that voice tells the other bitch in my who tells me I'm fat/whore/stupid/worthless/pathetic to shut the fuck up.  I'm alive.  I'm so lucky to be alive.  I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and trudge through; all the while reminding my self to breathe, scream and take it one bite at a time. 

My esophagus is torn.  My stomach stretches and spits up bile.  My potassium drops and drops.  My head spins, I'm weak, blood pours from a mouth riddled with ulcers as I've become a bucket of filling and emptying; woman who breaks into little girl sized pieces when any man touches her.  I am not going to have a happy ending am I?

This is the problem with sickness.  It brings us too close to death.  It's like being a teenager and meeting your first lover, feeling the thrill of touch turn to sheer terror when you realize that you have no idea what the fuck you're doing.  But the problem is once you've been there, once you've tested your limits-pushed them farther than you thought possible- you have a taste for it.  You have a new found need for the lack of need itself.  And it's intoxicating.  It's your drug, your lover, your anesthetic- but the problem is by the time you realize it's killing you you're already mainlining it.
Remy

Purging

The problem is that I have grown into my disorder and it has grown into me.  The edges that once separated us have blurred we've become this enmeshed thing, hell bent on its own destruction.  I've spent the better part of the past 12 years scarfing, barfing, starving, cutting and living in varying states of terror and rage only to find myself at 20 years old starring at a vastly abbreviated lifespan. But I do have this: I am thin.

Whoop de fucking do.

Remy