A moment of honesty
A moment of honesty: My anorexia has gotten out of control. The cutting, the restricting, I am at my extreme. It almost as if it is a game to me, to find my body’s breaking point. I cannot say that I have just relinquished all control, succumbing wholly to the Voice..I am in more of a paralysis, so to speak. My energy has been eviscerated from my being, every ounce of energy and conscious thought sucked like venom from my veins, leaving a corpse in a satin-laced coffin. I had found some hope in a residential center I had sought out, been told that it was unaffordable, told again that it would work out, only to discover a final time that our final plan had failed; ‘thus, leaving me to resort to my last resort: Mercy Ministries. I found out about Mercy Ministries while I was searching the internet one evening, and was amused at how a place could provide treatment free of charge. So, I took the initiative to check it out, and finally started the admittance process yesterday evening. I was under the impression that by “wait list,” they were speaking along the lines of a couple of weeks, give or take a few days. To my complete and utter dismay, however, I was told last night that at best it would be mid-late July before I could get in. Devastation did not hit me entirely yet, though my soul did experience some degree of dejection, because I knew that once it came I would finally be able to begin my recovery. That’s when the news articles started popping up. Every search engine imaginable brought up horrific stories of abuse at Mercy places, and although I do not trust the internet as far as I can throw it, I cannot say that the articles/accounts do not frighten me to no avail. I can’t help but wonder if they are true, and if I began the process of getting myself hurt even further, as if that is humanely possible. Either way, I am scared. I am scared because as I look in the mirror at this present moment, I see how sick I have become. I see the bruises lining up my spine, where the bones have pushed so hard against the skin they hold the constant, bluish-black color. I see the way my head seems disparate from my body, almost like it is the head of someone else, disproportionate in all of its manner. I wince as I clean up another wad of my hair, where it has fallen out again, and I cringe at the pain I experience now just sitting up—it hurts to be alive. If there is any one fact of which I am currently certain, it is this: I am now waiting. I know that one of two things are going to happen, and I no longer have the strength to do anything but await whichever happens first. Either I will get into treatment by some miraculous circumstance, or I will die. I say this with the upmost sincerity. I am not fishing for pity or to make my situation sound worse than it is; I am simply just admitting to the facts. The fact that I can no longer walk from room-to-room without becoming out of breath. The fact that I have yet to be able to physically handle an entire day of school without having to leave early. The fact that I no longer feel any sensation of emotion or appetite whatsoever, and that I cannot even seem to bring myself to eat my self-decided “safe foods.” I am dying, faster than is in my control, and it honestly scares me to death. (No pun intended.) It’s ironic, isn’t it? The suicidal girl claiming a fear of death? I cannot help but laugh at the ridiculousness, but it is only I that will understand: I only want death to come when I decide. I’ve been battling rather brutally with the thoughts lately, but there is a reason I’ve yet to act on them this time. But now, death is pulling me under more and more each day and I cannot will myself to do a bloody thing about it. My depression has entwined itself in me so duteously, so delicately that I have experienced more days in the last week of feeling like I am in a continual state of subconsciousness that I presently am not able to be certain if I am really typing this or not. Wednesday afternoon I started talking to this guy at school, telling him of something or another, only for him to stare back at me in confusion—the dream was so real that I thought it had happened, that we had the conversation. I am still convinced. Last night the confusion/blackness was so strong that I wanted nothing more than to be at peace in the void of my dreams. In my frantic anxiety attack in front of the mirror, I succumbed to seducing that horrid Voice with the taste of sweet medication. Ashamed and throbbing, I crawled into bed and fell under the spell of the moon. As all of this chaos wreaks its havoc within/on me, I am still holding tight to my advocate-testimonial project I would like to start. I plan on publically announcing (via Facebook) to all my school/ other friends and acquaintances of what exactly is wrong with me. Thursday afternoon I finally had enough of hearing what the latest rumor was, or the nurse who had the nerve to tell me how much she envied my body after taking my weight at a convenient care clinic. Not only do I want to be open about my battle in order to “stick it to the man,” per say, but I feel that it is my purpose to save the lives of other people. I hope that perhaps I can prevent, or even just raise awareness on these illnesses, by publically revealing my own. More strongly fueling my determination of “coming out”, however, is the fact that I am not sure how much longer I have left. I have made a lot of mess in these 17 years, and if I am going to die in two weeks, or 8 months, I want my final wish and breath to be spent on attempting to make some sort of change. For all of you out there who have been supporting me throughout the time I started this blog, I thank you ten-times through. I apologize for disappointing any of you who may expect more strength from me, but I made the promise to be honest with this blog. I will assure you, moreover, that I have not given up, nor do I have any plans on doing so. I am merely communicating my absolute exhaustion, fear, and hopeless in which I am frozen. I ask that each and every one of you continue fighting and never give up for the rediscovery of your life. I am still hoping for an end to this misery, though my pages of hope have long-time seen their endings..