I’m not good at this.
I’m really not good at anything anymore. I know I use to be.
I use to be determined and curious and had a thirst for things. I don’t anymore. I’ve dragged the corpse of whom I was
around for years, hoping she’d come back.
Hoping I’d become her again.
Hoping all of this was worth it.
But it’s not. And it’s not
ending. I see no end to this.
It’s time to put her down, and with her, myself.
God, I wish death were the answer. I wish I wasn’t trapped, but I am, and there are no options
for anything else.
Oh how quickly things get fucked up. Totally and completely destroyed.
I hate how I feel in my body. The fat, the marks, the endless list of imperfections. I’ve worked hard, and for years to be
ok with it. But today I hate
it. I hate constantly living in a
fat suit I can’t take off. I hate
feeling betrayed by hunger. I hate
my mental weakness, my inability to force myself to make it better.
I hate these pathetic thoughts. I hate myself for feeling this way. I hate the way I can’t see anything but
this internal horror.
I would have left me too.
I’m not loveable.
2% is all it takes to make me this way.
I’m sad my parents had me. They could have had so much better. They should have had so much better.
These frantic selfish thoughts.
I’m sorry.
Sorry I’m so swallowed up within myself. Sorry I can’t get out.
Sorry I’ve given up and given in.
Sorry the emptiness couldn’t be filled. Sorry I was too flawed to feel the good things.
I told God I wouldn’t survive it a second time.