Enough Said.

Terribly written, but I made my point.

She wanted to remember this feeling. It was that everything would be alright. Lilium stood in the sultry, still cemetery. Her breath could be seen on the air. The trees were brittle and dead, the sky gray. Dim sunlight slanted across the graves, and crows cackled in branches above. Leaves rustled below. Somehow, it was beautiful. And she knew everything would resume. She would resume.
"If you do anything with your life," she told herself, "be sure it is that you recall this moment."
It was that in which she chose to be happy. For the last time, she swore she would do it, and she didn't need anyone else. She could do it by herself. Just as people made their luck, she was to fabricate her contentment. It was no matter that her life was falling apart, and she had few people left. She had Lilium. And within Lilium was a wild spirit longing to be free from the chains in which she was bound. Those of depression and fear.
A smile slowly crept across her lips. Lilium smiled. She knew it was the beginning of a new chapter. She could overcome an eating disorder, so she would overcome this, this pathetic sadness. There was nothing truly wrong.
She turned and commenced her run. The sun did not shine, and the birds did not sing. It began to snow. But she was happy.

At the present I'm lying awake in bed, crying and wondering at my pathetic existence. When will I finally get hit by a goddamn car? I don't understand why I feel this way. Why I cry. I feel as though the small things that I have control over are too, slipping from my grasp. I have no safety, and worst of all no one to fall back on. My life has becomd a monotonous cycle of school, trying to give a fuck about church, my family, and empty weekends where I sit home alone (unless I've gotten myself into attending a church function). I haven't seen my best friend in weeks, I've been told I'm cheap, spineless, unwanted, disliked. The only people that text me anymore are guys that want one thing. Well you know what? Go fuck YOURSELVES, because you're not fucking me. That's what I am. I am not real anymore. For once I want someone to talk to me with no other motive. I feel so incredibly angry and pathetic and useless, I do not believe I can articulate my exact emotions. The only thing I know is that for once in my life i would like to be happy and know that I wont be absolutely miserable a week later. It always comes. This fucking cycle! I'm not going to make it. I can't anymore. Not like this.

*sigh

She trailed a hand along the dried grass. Her steps were careful, quiet. Late fall had risen upon the world. The leaves were shriveled, and the trees beautifully indisposed. The November sun appeared fainter than usual, hanging behind ill humored autumnal clouds. Their gray masses loomed over the upcoming lake like a greedy man's hand over diamonds.
The blue satin of her dress caught on weeds. Bristles prodded her feet. But she walked, pushing clumsy ringlets from her eyes. The hill came to it's crest and the tall grass ended abruptly. Below her was the lake, faced with jagged rocks and overhangs. It's surface was a shattered glass even in the dim afternoon. A lukewarm wind whipped against her, pushing her toward the edge, and she let out a sob.
The girl looked up desperately. She let her hands slip from their wringing grip in her hair and fall lifelessly to her sides. A strap of her dress slid down her shoulder, and all around her, the girl's world collapsed. She watched everything she had ever known shatter, combust, go to hell.
It was metaphorical, of course, but it was how she felt. Everything was gone, and every breath a lost cause. Her eyes caught the water below, agonizingly far.
“Pearl,” his voice was soft, and kind, and cautious. She did not turn.
“It's over,” Pearl whispered. “I don't believe I can hold on any longer.”
“Look at me.”
“There would be no point.”
Before she could protest, his arms were around her, gripping tightly against the wind.
“ There is always hope, Pearl. Even around the darkest corner.”
“I don't know how anymore!” It came as a scream, a cry for help.
“Then come back,” he whispered, holding her closer, “come back to me.”

That small excerpt of thought is what I want. I want someone to help me, and love me. He wouldn't break my heart, or break his promises. He would save me. That's what everyone wants, someone to save them in one way or another. But we rarely get what we wish for, do we? I believe I'll have to wait a very long time to be lucky and deserving enough for such a person. When I'm told that I deserve the world, or that I should get only the best, it makes me want to scream. Those are the people who have no idea who I am.

I shouldn't have to tell people, but eating disorders are not a joke. I don't think there's anything that makes me angrier than when people make jokes about bulimia or anorexia. It's the same thing with suicide. Not funny.
There's a girl I know who's a bit overweight, but she's active. I don't know about her food intake, but by the looks of it she eats pretty normally. Today she said, "I need to lose weight. Anorexia starts now. I'm gonna puke after every meal." And she started laughing. There's a small chance that she has stuff to hide and is saying this to cover it up, in a way, but I do not think so.
I don't think I've ever been so angry in my life. I wish there was more outreach in schools for this type of stuff. I mean, so many individuals suffer from it. I remember not knowing who to go to, so I just.. let it happen. It's not acceptable. Just a thought. I don't understand why people would think it's okay. It's like making fun of a mentally disabled person right in front of them, except they wouldn't really be aware of it.
I'd like to add that I haven't relapsed yet!(:

I'm fucking fat.

I really should be studying, but I feel as though it will help if I get these thoughts out of my system.
Today marks one month of my recovery. I have neither binged nor purged in an entire month. It has been six months since I've been able to take strides such as these. I am not proud of myself, though. Not in the least.
Every minute a thought passes through my mind, reminding me of how I so hate myself. I hate every breath I take, every smile, every tear. I hate how I look and how I feel. I hate that it's my fault I'm alone. I hate how I walk, talk, laugh, interact with other people. I hate every ounce of fucking fat on me. I hate when I can't run because I'm too tired because I'm disgusting and out of shape. I never pick out new clothes to wear after I eat because I feel as though my entire stomach is jutting out from me. I feel like my arms are sagging out of my shirts and my love handles are bunching out of the top of my jeans. I feel like my face is a glob of dough and my legs are lumps of cottage cheese. I'm hate how I feel disgusting every waking moment of my miserable little existence.
That is all.

Reflections

I should hope that in the future I can articulate my anger, distress, dynamic moods, and sadness in a more affluent fashion. Wednesday night was not one I savor. I'm very sorry to have frightened anyone that possibly wastes their time on reading this by my previous post. In most respects I am okay. I am alive.
I've heard more than once that I shouldn't make my personal problems so public, but I do not listen to such advice. First of all, there are very few people that bother to read these thoughts of mine, and secondly, what good are emotions if they aren't shared with the world? Words have so much beauty, awe, sadness within if arranged in the correct way, and I believe everyone should have a chance to experience them. We can write because it provokes another to think, to experience, to relate. I find no reason to keep my emotions bottled up, or in any way to myself, when another human being would willingly read them and relate to their own life. Perhaps they will find the beauty, pain, and suffering I so disastrously attempt to express. My words are screaming from within me, and I cannot suppress what I feel needs to be said. There is nothing wrong with that, because I find today there are very few that would think to spend their time on something such as words.
In the past month my life has taken drastic turns down a road almost ancient to me. For a long time I knew it was coming, that a fork would bring me back to it's ancient ruts. I haven't stepped foot on it in what feels as ages. I could see it running parallel to the road I call "my way", but pretended I did not see it. Now I find that my life has taken the worst turns I can bear to let it take, and I have found myself too emotionally ill to make it through a day without wishing I would be erased from existence. Yes, for a long time I avoided this old path, but now I find myself standing at it's doorstep with no other option in sight. It is now that I take a breath of cold, autumn air and step forward. I feel the discomfort and unwillingness rise up in me, and push it back. I have no other choice but to give up all I've allowed myself to know for the past three years, and start anew. I must say farewell to the love lost and the tears shed. I've wasted enough long nights staring at my wall, and wondering where I went wrong to lose everything I ever cared for. It is goodbye to a life of destruction.
Even I know it's not completely my fault. There is a clinical aspect to my illness that needs drastic attention, but even I know it shall be pushed aside. We will pretend it is a false existence. Yes, I will be fine; there is no such chemical imbalance within me that makes me want to slit my wrists in a bathtub or feel so overwhelmingly excited that I think I can fly. (Dream Theater, About to Crash reference). Besides my bad decisions, it is the very core of my sadness, my problems. But still, my family will pretend it is not there. Denial is a beautiful thing until someone gets hurt.
I'm not sure there is anything else I need to say today. My stomach still hurts, and it is my fault. I've cleaned my room, done laundry, and drafted an essay for English. Already I'm stressed and overwhelmed about next semester. Nursing school will most likely be the death of me, and I say that with no remorse. It is beautiful out, and while I'm in a comfortable, terrifying place between happiness and sad, I will try to enjoy what life has to offer.

Everything's all torn apart again. My life is nothing more than a fucking mess, one that I could have prevented if I never met you. I don't understand why I have to love someone that I cannot have. I don't understand why God wants me to want to die every waking moment, because that's honestly how I feel. I feel like there's no option for me. I've run out of choices. Fuck all the stories where people end up happy because it never happens.