1. Do you ever just sit and wonder. Like whoaw. This is me. I have an eating disorder. This is happening to me. Not to some character in a book or a movie. No, it is actually happening to me. I’m the one who is delusional. I’m the one who has a wrong perception of my body. It is me who can not eat without feeling guilty. I do not eat food, I eat calories and numbers. I am the one who kneels before the toilet and throws up after my meals. It is me who cut my skin open because I am suffocating in my own fat and flesh. The panic attacks are happening to me, not to someone else. I am the fat and ugly, disgusting and useless, pathetic failure of a human being.
    And there is nothing I can do about it.

     
  2. Can’t deal with the voices inside my head.

     
  3. I am smiling, but I have no reason at all. I’m faking it, putting up my facade. Nobody knows, that I’m dying inside..

     
  4. Yet another repulsive picture of me. I HATE my thighs, they are HUGE!

     
  5. So.. This is me. Fat, ugly, disgusting. Just extremely repulsive.

     
  6. I need and deserve the pain.

     

  7. This is a short excerpt from my diary.

    Wednesday, November 9th, 2011

    I’m sitting in my bed. Don’t know how I ended up here, the last hours are like a black hole. I remember the bell ringing, everybody getting up, packing my bag and walking to the buss. I remember getting off the bus, looking for my keys in my pocket, unlocking the door. But when I entered, a wave of depression rolled over me.. I’m trying to figure out what happened. I’m looking down at my bed; my blanket is red. I don’t remember changing it, but I know that the one I slept with yesterday was white. I’m looking down at me legs; blood is running down from my inner thigh, but it’s not because I’m having my period. I’ starting to remember; I walked to my room, placed my bag in the usual place, hang my jacked over my chair. That’s all I remember. I look down at my thigh again, the blood is still running. It’s warm and wet, and the red colour is colouring my white blanket. The blood is coming from a deep cut. The cut is long, straight, deep. I remember that after I hang my jacked, I went downstairs and picked up the phone. I called my mother and asked when she’d be home. ”Not before you’re asleep”, she replied. The cut looks pretty, I think. Not pretty like a dress, or a pair of shoes, but pretty because it represents my pain. I went to the bathroom. I opened the cupboard and found the silver-scissor. It hurts, but the pain feels good. I deserve it. My thigh is burning, but it’s nothing compared to the pain inside me. The scissor penetrates the skin on my inner thigh. First, nothing happened. But then, al of the sudden, the blood came trickling. The pain inside me is unbearable. It’s burning inside me, and now on the outside as well. I remember my phone ringing. I picked it up from the bed, press the ”answer” button. I recognized the voice; my sister. I talked slowly and clear, although the tears were gathered in my throat. She told me that she wouldn’t come home before her practise, so I would be alone until dinnertime. We said goodbye. My tears are streaming down my face. The silver-scissor is lying right beside me, red from the blood. I’m scared. I’ve cutted before, but never like this.

     

  8. here-im-not:

    The ones who starve,
    The ones who purge,
    The ones who burn.
    To the people who cry every night,
    Bleed every day.
    To the ones who are told
    That they aren’t good enough,
    That they aren’t skinny enough,
    Pretty enough,
    Happy enough.
    To the people who are bullied,
    Bruised,
    The ones…

    (Source: , via dropdeadanorexic-deactivated201)