Sunday, 25 December 2011

032; Living on a diet of chocolate and cigarettes.

"I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. Even now, when people lean down to touch me, or hug me, to put a hand on my shoulder, I hold my breath. I turn my face. I want to cry."

— Marya Hornbacher

I am alive. For better or for worse. I woke up in a feverish state several times last night. There's a storm raging outside and all I want to do is cry. I binged and I wanted to purge but I didn't and I feel so fucking fat. I've stayed in my room, in bed, avoiding everyone and anything. I just want to sleep. It's all too much. The littlest things set me off. Everything's too loud, there are too many people around, it's too bright. Both mother and brother tried to hug me, and my mask slipped, and I snapped. It evoked so much rage that it scared even me. I hate being touched. And I shy away, but really, all I want is to be held; I long for an embrace to fold myself into. Someone to disappear into. I just want to be not me for a while. I want someone to care. I need you to notice, but you probably forgot to remember me. (Did you?) And yet I hate this; being so vulnerable, so needy, so dependent. (I just want to hear your voice. Where are you?)

How do you continue living when you hate the very bones of yourself, the simple fact that you exist, in this world, today?

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