Is my leap destined to drown?

I want to push my body to the edge. I hunger to flirt with losing all control. I am addicted to the melancholy mellifluousness of the pain. There are times, times that I long to carve in stone- if and only for my own memory’s sake- that I see the decay as it has engulfed me.  I see the lines, what I have lost, and all that is fading from me. I feel the spinning, the weakness, and I perceive myself—the sickness I delineate. However, these moments are far and brief and not near as resilient as the others of which I suffocate within each second. I always fall back to seeing what It wants me to see, and what I, nevertheless, believe to be there.

It is exhausted, excruciating, and I am far beyond tired. I want out. Living a life of an insatiable motive of inexorable control is truly, the most energy-zapping activity there is. Incongruously, I think that I perhaps burn more calories thinking about how awful I am than I do actually doing the things that make me so awful. Life is full of paradoxes. I am troubled by the fact that my dry sense of humor does nothing for the agonizing mauling of the noise inside my head.

I find myself becoming more and more unable to think, concentrate, and even properly vocalize a sentence. I read somewhere that as starvation persists, the brain actually begins to shrink in size, and ‘thus also slowly slurps away your IQ. I wonder where I am at in regard to that notion. I am not entirely sure that I am ready to say goodbye to Ivy Leagues.

My last doctor’s visit this past Tuesday resulted in various instances of rather heated debates and long, wretched episodes of grimy tears. After evaluation of my rather profound deterioration in the five day period from my previous visit, I was informed of the new rules of the game: considering I cannot come back to the clinic until the end of May due to college finals/AP exams, I will be given until June 12^th to gain a few pounds and get my heart rate out of the danger zone. If I come back on the 12^th of June and my vitals are the same as or worse than this past Tuesday’s, my parents and treatment team will be arranging for my prolonged stay at one of few select residential treatment centers. Two reasons that this proposition rallied my extreme anger and distress: One, such provisions would ultimately result in my not graduating from high school, attending my JUST-received job, and various other major things that are rather important to me. Besides the fact of my impending education enhancement and therefore entire future is at stake, I DO NOT WANT TO GO. I DO NOT want to have to gain all my weight back in a forced manner when the thought of staying the apparently deadly weight that I am currently scares the living daylights out of me. I DO NOT want to spend 11 hours in therapy every day, talking to some stranger about the degree to which suicidal thoughts engulf my thoughts, the awful things that I do, my childhood, my past, the present and how actually, yes, it’s so much easier to starve than to pick up the fork. I do not want to become a prisoner. I already am imprisoned in my own mind, my happiness an inevitable goal I will never reach. Why cause myself to hate myself even more?

I realize that I am presented with an ultimatum, so to speak. I am frightened, scared to absolute death (quite literally) and I cannot even put into words how hysterical I have become. However, I know, deep down, that I have to do this. I have to do something. If not for myself (‘for it will be a rather long time before I can truly say that) than let it be for my loved ones, the world, and for the sake of the dreams people hold for me.

~ by candyshele1204 on April 28, 2012.