What’s that all about?
Is it ’cause I is ugly?
I’m so tired. Curl up and sleep. Deep. Never wake up.
And I didn’t choose anorexia/bulimia/schizoaffective disorder. I did not stop for them, they stopped for me.
Now the drugs don’t work · They just make you worse · But I know I’ll see your face again ·
Am I hopeless at everything I do?
Mental illness in a sentence: The universe is not your friend.
Did that do? Was it good enough for you?
Addendum: I went to L’s place for dinner on Friday and told her about ordering meds from over the net and she went and told my mother. I don’t know whether to feel betrayed or flattered that someone would take the trouble to do such a thing. Mother (a psych nurse) said that I should agree to into hospital to wean myself off them. Unlike most people I hate being in hospital. As soon as I arrive I am planning my escape. In my area they are quite heavy handed. The last time I ‘absconded’ they sent the police around to my flat. I was bundled in a van and dumped at the doors of the hospital like an unwanted parcel. The police, however, were for the most part professional and courteous. I don’t think returning escapees from mental asylums is a task they enjoy. And I can’t say I blame them.
Stolen From ASE-D
‘I don’t understand how I can be so unimportant. I want to believe that I deserve a chance, it is the rest of the world that seems to tell me I do not.
I know a lot of people here complain about weights and numbers and sizes and calories and foods and spoiler this and spoiler that but honestly those things do not trigger me at all.
The unequal distribution of love is my one and only trigger. Always has been and always will be. I don’t care if you post that you weigh 22 pounds. I don’t care if you shop in the infant section. I don’t care if you’ve eaten nothing but celery for 19 months. What bothers me is when someone cares about you, or is willing to help you, or when you have an opportunity and squander it, when you get some form of love and act like it is nothing worth having.’
How can I expect people to empathise with me or indeed me with them when I don’t even feel as though I have a right to inhabit this planet. My weird combination of illnesses means that I will never be fully understood. What then is the point of it all? What is the point of even trying? I can’t get past this wall I have built around myself. I am a prisoner in my own skin. Ugly and worthless. ‘You don’t belong here,’ says the voice in my head. ‘And you never will.’