I wake up, sometimes so quickly it is as though I’ve been slapped. The pain never leaves, never recedes, never returns to the dark like it used to.
I’m on antipsychotics.
I can’t stop bingeing/restricting/purging.
I can’t stop running. I have to tell myself that it feels like chasing something, pursuing something, but the truth is, it feels closer to running away.
I have an interview on Wednesday for a management position.
I already can’t live with myself. I have three therapists in the works now. I’m a fucking failure, but it’s okay as long as I’m eating it/running it/cutting it/vomiting it away. My throat is so sore from vomiting that my voice is hoarse. And most of the food is still in there. I vomit and vomit until I shake, and my hands are covered in saliva. I spent 30 minutes forcing it up, but all I get is liquid and pain.
I have some secrets. There are some things you can’t tell. I’m not ashamed, so much as a hoarder of truths. I don’t know where I begin and end. I only know that life is found in the moments of agony, never in the moments of joy. And maybe that’s why I can’t sleep at night.
I hope to myself that it’s just the pills.