It's been quite some time since I last wrote to you guys, and I'm hurt. Very hurt.
Something's happening...I need to take control. I'm going to tell you all about my past. There was a time in my life, when I hated myself.
Literally. I despised me myself and I.
Depression set in so deep, and as usual I swindled everyone around me. Bulimia. No one knew. No one ever fathomed that I had this illness.
I couldn't control anything anymore. Not my grades, my sexuality, my fighting parents, nothing.
Then I said, "I can control my weight."
I recorded every morsel I ate. I excercised excessively at only eleven years old, I was worried about my life, until it drove me down a spiral of fear and rejection. I threw up things I ate. I would leave the dinner table, and lie to say I had a stomach ache, or that the food was too rich...
That was never the case. Never. It was always purging and puking.
Only now, years later am I coming to complete terms with it. I was only eleven. ELEVEN.
In seventh grade, it continued, but not as much. The sickness had a mind of its own. I fabricate nothing.
In eighth grade, I knew it wasn't healthy and that I had to stop. But I still hated myself. I was a walking, talking tub of lard...forcing myself to get thinner.
Couple that with sudden deaths in my family, I was in for it. I couldn't hold anything down.
I'd go to the bathroom for hours at a time, not even spitting up food but crying. Just crying all by lonesome.
I was sick of being called fag. I was sick of trying to make myself straight by having oral sex with a girl I knew...
It was the end of my eighth grade year. I starved myself even more. On prom night, I finally ate something, then spit it up moments later....I was lost in darkness. In ninth grade, I avoided eating at all costs. I would steal food and hide it or buy just to hide it, and make it look like I had eaten it.
Anorexia set in. I forced myself to hate myself, to make myself skinny. My pants sizes began to drop, I told my folks I wasn't hungry during breakfast, i picked at my dinner, and I went to the restroom during lunch....
I needed help. I know my parents wouldn't have understood. I sought help. I consulted an online counselor, who helped me through it. One time I almost had a panic attack in school.
Even now at sixteen in the Eleventh grade, it's day by day, but my mind won't let me forget it. I don't even remember the name of the counselor.
My eating disorder days are bad realities,not bad dreams. How could I have been so rash? So quick to dig a grave for my body?