Midnight Confessional

Let me first say, before, by chance, your eyes wander down to words  written below, that I apologize for my honesty and what some will perceive as “negativity.” I know that a major step towards recovery is admitting and stepping away from the numbing comfort of denial. Although I am in no position to claim I am doing anything to help myself/get my life back on track, perhaps admitting to this aloud will help, all the while the blackouts and trembling hands commence. Here’s to taking a chance on anything at this point. This is my battle this evening, raw and honest:

I find myself stricken with absolute disgust as I admit to what I am about to disclose to you. Revulsion, rage, shame, and the throbbing sense of pain’s acrimonious comfort– to sum my feelings towards the mentality of which bestowed to today. As emotions cloud my consciousness, I am both physically and mentally reeling from my lack of self-control towards the eating disorders decision to deprive myself of any amount of food today. Nothing at all, did touch my lips, and I am painfully experiencing its effects in every facet possible. Granted, I have spent the last 9 months of my life sanctioning this downhill battle, but it’s more of a factor of not eating enough/anything “nutrient-dense”, as they say, for my body to function. Today, I admit, was the first day in a while that I allotted myself no nutrients whatsoever. Sometimes I surprise myself at just how easy it is for me to do something so horrid. When I feel the distant churning of my empty stomach, it’s far too easy to ignore. Such as like my too-easy ability of tolerating immense amounts of pain in my wrists, as well as a pill’s effect in my body. I exist in a pathetic state of feeling so weak, so out of control– but in my weakness here I feel stronger than ever. I am empowered by my uncanny ability at restricting my body of what it needed today. I cannot help but contemplate the absolute seriousness of my action today, and languish within the unbearable disappointment I feel towards myself. However, am I not the only one to blame? Never have I, nor will I ever, feel sorry for myself. I deserve this mess that I am, because no one has the power to change it but me. Time and time again I grimace as I hear society accuse such acts as “choices,” “decisions.” There are times, such as this, when I cannot help but listen to the Voice that destroys me so, as it spits its acid lines at me—“This is your fault.” In my perpetual vulnerability I have no defense, no retaliation to the Master, and I come to believe that I chose this life. I made these decisions, and I continue to make them, time and time again. However, I know that this cannot be. I do not believe that as a young child, I dreamt of spending my life as a prisoner of my own mind, wasting away both literally and metaphorically. I am not choosing this life….

“I am sick. I need help.”

“No, no I am not. I am not sick; I am perfectly fine. I don’t have issues.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’ll recover when you’re ready.”

“What if ‘ready’ is too late?”

I battle with myself inside my head.. Or is it the Eating Disorder? Is the Eating Disorder me? Do I want it to define me? It does not matter what I want; ‘for as of now, I know it does..

 I wonder, as this wooden clock ticks beside me, echoing the gamboling thud of my heart as the moon shines its ethereal luminosity around me, how it must feel to not be a walking statistic? How does it feel to walk into a room and not immediately compare yourself to every other individual there, including the figures in the paintings? How does it feel, I wonder, to not pre-plan your diet weeks in advance with “safe” foods, never straying above, but always gladly adhering well below, the carefully calculated amount? How does it feel to look at a piece of food and not instinctively mentally note its nutrition history and information like clockwork, and imagine what part of your body it will add its filthy tissue to? I cannot help but wonder: how would it feel to be anything but me?

 I am beginning to contemplate if my name is destined to go down on the long list of demises fashioned by this infirmity. How would they word it, and what exactly would be the cause? Would I be suicide, starvation, heart failure? All three? As much agony as these morbid thoughts bring to me, I cannot help but listen to the Voice from which they are birthed. In a way, long-term self-harm, I suppose, is essentially like one prolonged suicide attempt. There’s only so long you can flirt with the edge, testing its waters, before you trip too far to catch yourself mid-step. Eventually, you either recover or perish from the complications and/or your own behavioral catalysts. It is with my utmost apologies that I plead to you to forgive me for the sheer unpleasantness enwrapped within this post. However, I felt that possibly if I shared this, if I confessed to the world what I cannot and will not admit to my parents, friends, and medical advisories, the dialogue of battle and thoughts within my being, then perhaps I can find some strength in something other than my demolishing power. I created this blog with the hope of reaching out and helping others to rediscover their lives that have been succumbed by whatever ails them. Regrettably, I am feeling as if I am failing in the one purpose I set out for myself, ‘for how can my confession of these horrid thoughts be of assistance to anyone?

I do not write to receive sympathy. I do not write to conceitedly gloat about my life and all that has become of me. I despise pity. I am fully aware that I have welcomed this living Hell. I write because it is the only place that I can be myself, whoever that is. I live the façade of the multifaceted juxtaposition of rehearsed lines and brilliantly faked smiles. I have been taught, through my upbringing, that the display of emotion, of weakness, is unacceptable. Out of the fear of attention focused on me, I learned to never reveal any of what I feel. I don’t want people feeling sorry for my own mistakes, nor do I want to burden them with my brokenness. I learned to live two lives. I adapted long ago the ability to play out the persona of the girl everyone expects and approves. The recovering, courageous daughter my parents want; the academically advanced and “flawless” student my advisors perceive; the mentally sound and optimistic young lady that society accepts. I play these parts so well, having each intricate detail memorized to a tee, that oftentimes, I come to believe these charades myself. My writings, what you are witnessing, are of the stranger that resides within my body. These are my thoughts, my confessions, my agonizing fears and emotions that I try so hard to not feel. My writings are where I coddle a release of some sort, when all of my other endeavors fail me, as they always do and always will–the cyclic pattern of attempting to fill a void, if I may be as so bold to call it that, with mere air.

So, with my body’s cruel yet warranted consequential upshots this evening, here I exist, feeling the distress of my biggest relapse to date. I realize at this instant that I am only giving power to the Voice; feeding it with the feelings it wants me to endure, surrendering to its destructive ambition to rob me of my life. I realize that I have not cried in what seems like an eternity; perhaps my tears have dried up behind these vacant, green eyes. I am willing tears to come at this moment, longing to feel their alkalinity slip down my cheeks, washing away my mistakes of today and providing me with a new beginning tomorrow.

It overwhelms me with its force—“It’s cyclical for a reason, you ghastly imbecile.”

“I’ve let more than my share of revivals die. This is not pretty, but it’s who I am every night.”

 Here comes the last thought I will coherently receive tonight:

I abhor myself for what I’ve done.

~ by candyshele1204 on March 20, 2012.