bone-pale, reeling

i'm so sick it's hard to breathe without feeling bile climb up my throat.
it's not a real illness. maybe it is. the undying ailments of anxiety, self-hatred and total isolation. i think i've finally cut off any ties i had with people. i've given up. it is too difficult for me to sustain any kind of relationship with anyone.

i feel like an outsider, always. always. how do people work? and live? how do people eat and socialize. and eat while socializing. how can you put so much trust in someone else? how can you be so comfortable in your own skin?


there's something i'm missing. that i was always missing. i could say i feel like less of a person but that would not be enough. that doesn't cover it. not even close.



i'm drowning again.
i used to think being over 100 pounds made me the most suicidal, but that number has dropped to 95.

i'm disgusting. nothing new.



it will be my birthday in two days. two days. like always, i don't want to think about it. maybe it really is an illness. i'm not sleeping well, and i haven't in about 4 months. i would say i'm drinking more water, except yesterday the thought of anything in my stomach repulsed me until i was gagging. even now, egg whites and scallions and an english muffin, two litres of water and my fingers are crawling deeper down my throat and it feels so safe. stop i say, stop that. you never used to purge.

i have never felt this wrong before, either.
every time i feel it fade a new wave hits; look at you, in all your repulsiveness. what have you done to yourself? you used to be stronger. and smaller. smaller.