Thursday, November 17, 2011

broken wrist, broken spirit

I follow the train tracks, like bare empty bones, like ribs, fire colored trees on either side. Dry leaves breaking, the only sound I hear. The tracks pass under a bridge, and I pause. Bright, obscene graffiti, and beer cans scattered amongst the leaves. I'm all alone, but there's a sense of recklessness left behind from others who came to this same place. I continue carefully over the blue gray rocks and parallel bars of the tracks, past a sign forbidding trespassers, a shady nightclub. I'm tempted to lie down, to feel the hard tracks against my body, to hear the vibrations of the coming train.

A sharp intense pain explodes in my right wrist, a thousand times worse than anything I have ever felt in my lifetime. My words don't make sense and the world turns patches of dark. At the hospital, three hours pass before I'm given a pill of Ibuprofen. A fracture in my radius, the doctor says. Not one tear escapes during the entire time, physical pain is a short red papercut in comparison to emotional pain.

Alex tells me he hears that B has a girlfriend, freckles across her face. It's not confirmed yet, but I relapse into the familiar pattern. B, the guy I've known for five years, the guy who liked me when I was ugly, the one with the soft blue eyes, the one who trades jokes with me and slows down to walk beside me. Alex doesn't realize I'm sad, he tells me I can do better, tells me B is like boring like cardboard. I honestly thought he could save me from myself, believed he could help me be the type of person I had always hoped to be. I was stupid, for thinking he could care for me, thinking he could care for a girl with issues with food, intimacy, self injury, anger.

Avoiding eating is much easier now, with a broken wrist. I was having a 100 calorie day, until I  gave in to 300 calorie ice cream and two spoonfuls of peanut butter. I fit into double zero shorts now, tight, but they fit.

I don't want to always live in this faded world of self-destruction and hunger and despair and self-absorption, but where else can I go? Someone please show me the train tracks that lead away from here, I think I'm almost ready to follow them out.

Much love to
Sam Lupin
Depressed Skinny Mess
Judith Marie
Lucy's Shadow
miss alisha
deseperee de maigrir
Perfection and Ana
Nichole S.
for commenting. Each one of you beautiful people makes me smile with pure happiness.(: I'll be catching up on everyone's lovely blogs, but I might either leave a short comment or no comment, I apologize. I'm typing with one hand, but once my wrist heals, I'll be able to blog more frequently.

Friday, November 4, 2011

red lines etched over purple bruises

pages from my journal

October 31st
Unseen raindrops fall lightly around me, yellow rays from the streetlights weakly shine through the blackness and disappear. Navy dress and boots. Waiting has become a habit, my thinking time. Thoughts random and messy, distorted as if by a thousand mirrors.

Alex and Adrienne already in the backseat of S's car when I climb in. I barely know these people; they know almost nothing about me, yet see secrets I thought I'd hidden away. The colors of traffic lights, bright in the darkness, blur with the rectangular shapes of buildings and the world seems surreal. S is driving much too fast, as if we're running from life itself.

"You're anorexic, look at you," Alex comments, I deny, and it's impossible to decide whether he's serious. Later that night, when I'm no longer in the car, I know I'm still going much too fast.

November 1st
The clock's hands pierce the black numbers, 11:11 pm. I wish for happiness, something I don't quite understand anymore.

November 3rd
Red lines etched over purple bruises and light skin. Burning and pain as the blood struggles to break free. A reminder. When Hunter asks what happened, I tell him, "I can't remember."

The scale says 104.

November 4th
"She's always messing with her hair, she thinks she's so sexy," I hear these words, words like these for the very first time, I see the girl that said them, and my heart stops. So unfair, so inaccurate, I want to cry. I can deal with being called a bitch, fat, shy, but I am definitely not stuck-up or arrogant. And it hurts like hell, coming from the same girl that's always pulling out her makeup and brush, the same girl who once begged me not to cut my hair because "It's so pretty!", the same girl that inspired a club all about despising her.

I wanted to show her my scars, show her how I puke after bingeing, but most of all, I wanted to show her all the hurt and pain inside.

And I can't help but wonder if everyone secretly hates me. I try to be a good person, I truly do.

Thanks to
Lucy's Shadow
Thin Thrills
Little Miss Thin
Depressed Skinny Mess
for being everything I needed. I'll stay away from drugs, I promise. I hope you all are having a very lovely day, if you need anything, I am here, always.