Maddness

"Passion and death are implicit, one in the other. Past the border of a fiery life lies the netherworld. I can trace this road, which took me through places so hot the very air burned the lungs. I did not turn back. I pressed on, and eventually passed over the border, beyond which lies a place that is wordless and cold, so cold that it, like mercury, burns a freezing blue flame." 
— Marya Hornbacher


I want to kill the me underneath my skin.  The me that whines with her incessant needs.  The girl who lurks beneath the surface, aching for touch, for warmth. This fact haunts my days and nights. Because when you realize you hate yourself so much, when you realize that you cannot stand who you are, and this deep spite has been the motivation behind your behavior for many years, your brain can’t quite deal with it. So my brain, as will yours, will try very hard to avoid that realization; it will try, in a last-ditch effort to keep your remaining parts alive, to remake the rest of you. This is, I believe, different from the suicidal wish of those who are in so much pain that death feels like relief, different from the suicide I've often thought of attempting, trying to escape that pain. This is a wish to murder yourself; the connotation of kill is too mild. This is a belief that you deserve slow torture, violent death.  And an eating disorder is a perfect way for me to do that.  

But here's the kicker: I want to recover.  While I'm not sure I want to live, I'm fairly certain I don't want to die and the only way to avoid this fate is to recover.  But now for the paradox.  How do I manage to gain control over a disease that began as a bid for control?  How do I take back power from the thing that was supposed to give me power?  How do I manage to begin to ween off this anesthetic that's been my drug of choice for so long that I don't remember ever being sober?  


And thus onto my endless quest for answers.  Until tomorrow, 


Remy