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September 8, 2013

My story is a very sad one. The part that makes it the saddest, is that no one knows it. My history and its cruel character is one only I feel. You know when girls get raped, or beaten, it’s easy to relate to them feeling really small. Unfortunately there is nobody in this world who gets me, and I don’t think anyone ever will.

It’s impossible to convey an emotion when you don’t have the words for it. And it’s impossible to convey an emotion when its source is so outrageous that nobody will ever acknowledge it. If you fall, and are in pain, people will console you. If you don’t get what you want, and feel that pain, people will tell you to suck it up.
The pain’s there, but you’re alone with it.

From a very early age, actually as far back as I can remember, I was taught that voicing discontentment was complaining, and it wasn’t okay. Crying, being angry, raising my voice, it was all absolutely forbidden. It was immature and selfish, and I shouldn’t say it out loud. Just find a way to deal with it. Keep it contained though, by all means. Think about others first, they are always more important than you.
I feel spoiled, continuously. And I act that way, even though growing up I wasn’t actually spoiled. But I behave like a first class spoiled rotten child. I’m demanding, and needy, and entitled, and I can’t stand it when people don’t pay attention to me.
Every time I’m not happy about something, I feel guilty. As soon as some kind of wish pops up in my head, guilt comes right after it. Whatever comes at me feels like it should be enough. And when it’s not enough, I struggle to assert my own opinion about it.

It’s easy to make material decisions; I want this bed. I want an iPod. I want a smartphone. I want a tv. I want this and this food. I want to drink this juice and eat these dishes. But don’t ask me what I need from other people emotionally, please don’t ask me what I deserve. Nothing, I don’t deserve anything. Leave me behind, please, I can’t stand this closeness.
People tell me I’m strong, and it makes me tired. I’m tired of explaining that I’m not. Does anyone ever consider how rejecting it is when everyone tells you you’re wonderful? All my feelings and beliefs about myself are being denied. No, you’re wrong, you’re not what you think you are. YOU ARE WONDERFUL WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT.

I wake up wishing I was someone else. I go to sleep hoping I’ll wake up with a new personality trait, or less of the ones I have and hate. I breathe regret, about what I am, did or said. I browse the internet looking at pictures of people who seem happy, sorted, I read blogs of people who have a little house with furniture and projects. Hours are wasted with this sick ritual of peering into strangers’ lives, wishing I could somehow be in there, instead of here. Not because they’re careless, they’re not. I even love their problems, the appeal is in the sheer fact that it’s not mine.
There is no escaping my skin, except for substances. Substances numb the discomfort of my existence.

Abuse is the only relationship I can suffer. It’s the only one that acknowledges me, the way I truly know that I am. The way that everybody refuses to accept me. It’s amazing what the lies people tell themselves, can do to you. Let me tell everyone this; showering someone with compliments is not helpful. It hurts. It puts someone down even more. Disregarding someone’s flaws as if they’re not there, never even naming them for fear of making them real, it doesn’t help anyone. It induces shame, guilt and depression.
The household I grew up in pretends everyone’s perfect. There are no flaws and if they somehow show through the cracks, it’s good form to ignore it. It’s absolutely smothering, and disables any and every opportunity for wholesome acceptance. Both to muster and experience it.

I’m intolerant. I have no patience. I have very little self control. I’m impulsive. I’m very critical of others, and myself. I’m competitive, and get very angry with myself when I’m not the best. Sometimes when my animals do something I don’t like, I hit them disproportionately hard. I’m afraid I will hit my children, like my father did. I’m jealous when I see a beautiful girl, but at the same time I want to be around her to feel that inferiority because I like punishing myself for not being perfect. Rejection drives me up the walls. I treat my mother with utter disrespect, same with my older brother -both are better people than I will ever be. I absolutely ignore my father unless I need something from him. When I’m angry with someone, I enjoy being able to hurt them back. I think in extremes and my understanding of the world is childishly divided in black or white. I tell myself I’m helpful to others, but it doesn’t ring true when you realize I just want to be accepted.

I’m a bitch. I scream it, I wish someone finally believed me. Acknowledged me. Let me exist.

Liver

July 28, 2013

Apparently we’re having liver for lunch. Generally, I’m extremely well trained to know all calories in foods off the top of my head. I can see a plate, and count the calories up to 50 cal precision. But liver? Liver is a new one.
I couldn’t help but look it up on Google. I had to know. 116 cal for 100 gr. That’s not exaggerated.

This has been a very difficult week for me. For us, as a couple. My partner got drunk on Thursday and failed to get to me because of it, and it felt like a dagger to my heart. He did tell me honestly pretty much immediately though (of course he was AWOL for 10 hours first), and that soothed a lot of my emotions.

Slowly, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I won’t see him for another two weeks. It was tempting to eat, to purge, even to cut. I haven’t wanted to cut myself in over 9 years. I didn’t think that would ever return to me. Him being off the grid was an unbearable situation that made me want to rip the skin off my bones, scratch my belly until I could touch my pelvic bone. I wanted to run into a wall, feel so much physical pain that I would feel nothing. There is something incredibly comforting about bruises and their pain. It’s a dull, deaf pain of a wound inside, under your skin. And it leaves no scars.

I don’t know why I can’t stand it. My attachment to him is one I’ve never had. It’s a relatively safe one, one I can’t function without. In my terms, that’s healthy. His love has never faltered, been lessened or been confusing. It’s always irrevocably there.
When I don’t know where he is, or under what circumstances, it’s very difficult to keep my composure. His cell phone isn’t the most reliable thing either, and he usually turns it off when he’s drinking. I felt more powerless and panicked than I had in a very long time.

I ended up eating ice cream and using cookies for a scoop last night. I hadn’t eaten much yet that day, so it felt okay to indulge. I promised him, and myself, that I wouldn’t purge anymore, so I didn’t. I kept it in, but plotted how I would make up for it.

My breakfast this morning was a huge can of green beans with one spoon of mayonnaise. I couldn’t finish it. Half of it I threw away in the toilet, because I didn’t want my parents to wonder why I was wasting food. Why I can’t just eat like a normal person, with the family. The truth is, I can’t. Not right now. Facing them is worse than standing on a scale, or looking at myself in the mirror.
I had told myself that eating liver seemed safe, but they are downstairs eating right now, and I’m pretending to be resting. I don’t want to sit at a table. I don’t want to eat.

Today I can hopefully stick to fruit and vegetables.