We are our own enemies

Since I started school again, I’ve been relapsing even though I gave everything to prevent that. But that’s the point of all this, isn’t it? No matter how hard I try, I’m never good enough. I feel like that’s the main problem in my life. Nothing is ever enough.
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I saw a doctor today because of my swollen ankles. Wanna know what his ‘medical explanation’ was? I’m too heavy. This shithead dares to stand up and tell me my freaking ankles are swollen because I need to lose weight. Well, first of all: I’m not overweight. Unlike someone who actually studied medicine, I do know what a BMI is and that mine is definitely normal. Not to mention that you don’t actually even need a BMI to tell whether someone is overweight or not; you just see that- especially as a doctor. Well, he didn’t. But there are more things about his ‘diagnosis’: I gave birth to a baby exactly five months ago and have been kind of busy since with my finals and, well, my BABY. And he knows that because he is- no, was- a friend of my mom’s. And last but not least, when he made that fucking so called diagnosis, I was actually stupid enough to tell him I suffered from a severe eating disorder for half a decade and really don’t need to hear that shit (I didn’t say shit- I’m way too polite when I talk to adults who act like douchebags) and his explanation for that was that I’m just a badly behaved pubescent teenage girl. Right. THAT’S my problem. Thank you very much DOCTOR.
But that’s actually not where I wanted to go with this post. I just used it as an example for moments when I feel like I’m just not good enough. Not thin enough, in this case.
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No matter how thin was, I was never happy with what I saw in the mirror. I remember when I looked into that stupid thing three years ago and my ribs were sticking out and I was wearing those way too huge jeans even though they were the smallest ones the store had had, I looked at all those visible bones and all I thought was: There’s still weight left to lose. This isn’t it.
It’s always been like that and now that I’m not obese, but did gain weight during my pregnancy (even though that’s basically the most natural and normal thing in the world and happens to every woman) and that fucking kills me inside every single fucking day. I don’t tell anyone but my counsellor I’m seeing again on a regular basis now. Why should I tell anyone else? They wouldn’t be able to help, so what’s the use? I’d only get fake pity and I really don’t need that. Those things don’t get better when you talk about them. Some things do, but not this crap. It only gets worse.
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Same shit with my achievements: they’re not enough either; never have been. Back in elementary school, when I came home with an A, my dad used to take a look at it and then, instead of commending me, he would tell there were still a couple of points left I could have scored. That’s the mindset I grew up with and that’s been part of me ever since. Sometimes I don’t even bother to try cause I already know it won’t be the way I need it to be. Like maths. Already gave up there cause I know there’ll never be something better than an E- even though I worked my ass off to get better. It’s always the same shit. You try and work and put so much effort into something and screw it up anyway. Sometimes I think I just can’t take it anymore. This sick craving for perfection. Where’s it gonna get me? Nowhere. Because it doesn’t exist. You will always find something to criticize. There is no finish line, no point when you’ll be like ‘alright, now I’m good enough’. Who or what do we even have to be good enough and perfect for? Who the hell cares anyway? Why are we doing this to ourselves? Why am I doing this to myself? I know EXACTLY where it will get me. I’ve been there. It’s basically the road to destruction, but I’m taking it anyway, hoping it will be different this time, hoping I’ll make it this time. Hoping I’ll be happy this time. Hoping I’ll finally be able to live with myself, cause right now I’m just not. I can’t stand myself. I’m not what I need to be. Who I need to be.
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Who am I even trying to satisfy? The disorders in my head? The stupid people at school or other crap? My family? Myself? My son? I want him to be proud of his mom, but I’m not like other moms. I don’t have the perfect husband and the perfect house and the perfect job and the perfect life. Nothing is ever perfect when it comes to me. And I actually know that the perfect housewife’s life usually isn’t perfect either, that nobody’s life is, but I just can’t convince myself of that. Who am I and who do I need and want to be? And why is nothing ever enough? Why is this voice inside of me never satisfied with my accomplishments? Who is this voice? Is it me or society or my disorders? Why the hell do we hate ourselves this much? Why are we making ourselves our own enemies? There’s no need for it. But it’s what we do. Every single day, we put ourselves down because we can’t live up to some stupid expectations we or somebody else made up for us. And that’s what makes us fall apart. It tears us apart so badly, we need something to keep the rest of us together sometimes. Like drugs. Legal drugs since I’ve had my son, but still drugs. I’ve been smoking a couple times again even though I actually quit when I knew I was pregnant, so I got an e-cig now. Looks stupid and doesn’t exactly taste like a normal cigarette, but there’s no real smoke, smell, nicotine or cancer involved. I just need it to calm down a little. Oh, and I’ve been drinking a couple times. Vodka in a water bottle so people wouldn’t notice. I didn’t get drunk; I don’t do that because it’s stupid, ridiculous, low-brow and immature, but I drank a few sips here and there to keep my head from exploding at school. It’s stupid too, but I can’t help it there. Cassie describes it perfectly:
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I just need something to keep myself from falling apart because I love my son more than anything, but there is nothing. Nothing inside of me expect for the love for him. He’s like this huge light in the middle of all the darkness inside. But no matter how bright the light is, the darkness won’t fade away completely. See, nothing is ever enough. I keep smiling and telling people I’m okay because they wouldn’t understand (I only tell people when I know they’ll understand cause telling others would be useless) and I take care of Jamie and I’m always there for him and somehow make it through every single day and pass my exams and all the other stuff, but all the pressure makes me feel like dying. I wanna let go, but I can’t. I need to hold on and somehow get through everything, no matter what it takes. I don’t have a choice. I’ll probably never be happy, but Jamie needs to be. He deserves it. I probably don’t.

For Blue Skies

It’s been four long years
Since we last spoke
How’s your halo?
I never believed you
I only wanted to
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Before all of this
What did I miss?
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Do you ever get homesick?
I can’t get used to it
I’ll never get used to it
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I’m under that night
I’m under those stars
We’re in a red car
You asleep at my side
Going in and out of the headlights
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Could I have saved you?
Would that’ve betrayed you?
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I wanna burn this film
You alone with those pills
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What you couldn’t do I will
I forgive you
I’ll forgive you
I forgive you
For blue, blue skies
I’ll forgive you
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So fucking alone

I feel so alone, I can’t even breathe. There’s this huge hole inside of me and it’s black and deep and keeps growing and devouring everything of me. It’s like I’m losing myself bit by bit. Every night, another part of me just fades away into the darkness and I can’t reach out and get it back. That part; I feel like it’s gone forever. And it hurts. The pain is so intense that I struggle to keep breathing. Why does it hurt so much? Why can’t I get better? Why am I feeling like this? I’m not alone, so why am I so lonely? And why the hell am I not healing? The wound is bleeding and I keep putting plasters and bandages on it, but it won’t heal. I just keep losing blood. That person in the mirror; it’s not me. I’ve been replaced by depression and it hits me like a freaking hurricane, destroying everything it touches and leaving nothing behind expect for destruction. Damages that can’t be repaired, issues that can’t be fixed. Can I be fixed? Is there even hope for someone like me? After all these years, is it even possible to fully recover? Or will a part of me always be dead? Will I always feel like there’s something missing even when I have everything? Is this ever gonna end? Since giving birth to Jamie, I’ve been feelingalive for the very first time in several years, but still there are parts of me that are always hidden away, always in the shadows. This kind of fits right now:

When you go into the ER, one of the first things they ask you to do is rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. I’d been asked this question hundreds of times over the years, and I remember once early on when I couldn’t get my breath and it felt like my chest was on fire, flames licking the inside of my ribs fighting for a way to burn out of my body, my parents took me to the ER. The nurse asked me about the pain, and I held up nine fingers. Later the nurse came in and she said, “You know how I know you’re a fighter? You called a ten a nine.” But that wasn’t quite right. I called it a nine because I was saving my ten. And here it was, the great and terrible ten, slamming me again and again as I lay still and alone in my bed staring at the ceiling, the waves tossing me against the rocks then pulling me back out to sea so they could launch me again into the jagged face of the cliff, leaving me floating faceup on the water, undrowned.

I wish I had a Freddie to save me. But darling, this isn’t Skins and I’m not Effy.

It’s not beautiful

I’m struggling with my weight again. Well, ‘again’ is actually wrong because I’ve never stopped struggling with it. My pregnancy got me some more pounds and now I’m clearly not obese or something, but I’m just not skinny anymore. My stomach isn’t flat anymore, regardless of my position, and my thighs always touch, no matter how I stand or sit. And there’s fat where it’s not supposed to be. I actually wanted to lose the weight, but turns out I don’t have any time for sports (finishing school as a single mom is much more stressful than I expected it to be- not that I’m overchallenged or something, I’m doing a great job- but I just don’t have any time left for anything) and I can’t change my diet. Restricting or controlling how or what I eat (I mean, I already do that by living vegan, but that’s because of ethical reasons and has got nothing to do with any weight loss strategies) would bring the eating disorder back immediately and I cannot let that happen.
But the thing is: the thoughts are there. I would never admit it by speaking it out loud, but it’s true. The voice is back and forces me to consider my options, tries to convince me my current weight makes me a fat, lazy and worthless failure, tells me how useless I am. I ignore it, but it can’t ignore the pictures the voice brings back into my mind: the pictures of all those skinny girls and women.
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They’re thin as fuck, have those thigh gaps and visible rib cages and collar bones and hip bones and all that crap. And I hate myself for deep down, secretly wanting to be like them all over again. I mean, what’s the freaking point? They’re not even pretty! Thank god the healthy part is nowadays much bigger than the sick part in my head and makes me realize that. Bones are not beautiful. Walking skeletons are not beautiful. Girls that look like they’re about to fall apart, break down or collapse are not beautiful. Women whose bodies don’t have anything ladylike and feminine are not beautiful.
And you know what’s not beautiful either? Dying.
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Because that’s what eating disorders cause: sickness and death. Been there, done that. Those bodies look sick and desperate and not pretty at all. Those girls need a good therapy and not a freaking catwalk. What the hell is wrong with this society that it glorifies disorders? Even though everyone says showing starving girls is inappropriate, Size Zero is everywhere and the media keeps telling us we need to look like that to be beautiful. catwalk, gif, and Gisele Bundchen image
That’s the trick: They tell you to be yourself and that everyone is beautiful in their own unique way and then they judge you and tell you how you have to be and act and look to be pretty, famous, rich and successful because those are the most important things in life.
Be yourself- as long as you like what everyone else likes. And you’re beautiful the way you are- as long as your belly is flat and your legs thin. Girls are not supposed to be too girly because that would make them basic bitches or something, but they’re not supposed to be too boyish either because that makes them tomboys and unattractive. They gotta be chill, but not too chill, and look natural, but not show any flaws, and eat burgers and fries, but keep their small sizes. Of course girls are not the only ones forced to fit with that type, but I am a girl, so I know pretty much about girls. Why do we advertise sicknesses instead of helping people recover from those sicknesses? How twisted is that?
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And don’t tell me people get the help because outside hospitals and therapies, they don’t. Ever seen the movie (or read the book) ‘It’s Kind Of A Funny Story’? Emma Roberts totally proved how cool mental disorders are in that one. And damn, how cool teenage suicide and nuthouses are! But don’t you dare let that kind of stuff happen to you in real life. It’s cool and funny- as long as it doesn’t happen to you. Because if it does, they’ll run away. Because they can’t handle it. But it’s cool, right? Cancer also seems to be such a popular topic in teenage books and movies (and I’m not just talking about ‘The Fault In Our Stars’- which is great though, but I don’t read a lot of teen stuff) and everyone feels so sorry for those poor people- as long as those poor people don’t cross their ways in real life. We all feel so sorry for all the lost souls, but we don’t do anything to help them anyway. We say we don’t know what to do, but we actually don’t even wanna know.

Who am I?

Have you ever asked yourself that question? Because I have. Like, you know, multiple times. I can’t even count them anymore. I don’t even know if I’ve lost myself or just never knew who I was. I used to think I was special somehow (like a special kind of weirdo) because I really don’t know anyone who has as many sides and shades as I have.

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People don’t understand it’s possible to love darkness (the night, goth music, art and such), enjoy normal teenage stuff (drugs- yeah, I like them, but I don’t do them anymore, sex- but I don’t have sex anymore because of Jamie, parties- though I don’t attend any anymore, teen movies and books, Starbucks..), get obsessed with things (currently: the British show Skins), hate trends and society, but somehow be a part of it too, expect way too much from yourself (like getting all the A’s in school, study medicine or something and become someone people know and respect), be a good mom (and yes, I am despite my age and that stuff and I actually do and sacrifice everything and anything for him, do everything right and I’m ALWAYS there for him), be smart and well educated (like the fact that I actually like Dante and Shakespeare and don’t just fucking pretend), love nature and animals (yep, I’m that kind of girl that only eats vegan stuff and freaks out when someone throws his cig stub in the grass or treads on ants), have mental issues (because of my blog I don’t think I have to name an example), but I’m stronger than anyone I know and I definitely think and ask way too much about, like, everything. I’m curious and I’m not ashamed of it. Actually I’m usually not ashamed of anything. Everyone hates lies and hiding secrets and still everyone does these things. Well, I don’t.

So that’s me. Normal? I hardly think so. Special? I don’t know. I don’t think I know anything anymore at this point. This point. Where is this point? Where am I and how did I get here? When did I become this person and who is it? Have I lost control? Or did I let go? What the hell is happening here?! I honestly don’t know what to think, do or be anymore. I don’t feel bad, but I don’t feel good either. So what is it that I’m feeling? Shrinks always tell me confusion is a condition and not a feeling, but I don’t know another word to describe what’s inside of me. Whatever it is, it’s a huge mess and I don’t even know why. All I know is I can’t sleep and I’m feeling torn apart inside. Yeah, that’s a feeling! Right? Fuck it, I don’t know. I don’t even know what tears me apart inside. People ask how I feel and I don’t even know what to answer because I just don’t know. Am I okay? Am I crazy? Is this the life I wanted? And if it’s not, then what kind of life is it that I want? And will I ever get it? Will things change? Will I change myself? Change them? There are so many questions and no answers. I’m just sitting here confused AF and not being able to sleep though I’m really, really tired. Of everything and nothing and most of all, of myself. Because I’m just way too complicated. No wonder I’m single, right? Nobody can handle me anyway. Not even I can. I want to fit it- and somehow I don’t want to. Does that make sense? No. We’re told we can be anything, but I don’t even know what I wanna be. Just be yourself, right? Well, what is this ‘myself’? Who is it? Is it something narrowly and accurately defined? Am I supposed to figure it out? Will I ever?

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I know how people want me to be, how they want everyone to be (turn on the TV and you’ll know), but do I wanna be like that? I don’t hate myself, not anymore. But I don’t know myself either.

And I’ve lost who I am, and I can’t understand.
Why my heart is so broken, rejecting your love, without, love gone wrong, lifeless words carry on.
But I know, all I know, is that the end’s beginning.
Who I am from the start, take me home to my heart.
Let me go and I will run, I will not be silent.
All this time spent in vain, wasted years, wasted gain.
All is lost, hope remains, and this war’s not over.
There’s a light, there’s the sun, taking all shattered ones.
To the place we belong, and his love will conquer all.