I hate saying the words “I’m fat.”
I never say those words out loud, partly out of shame and embarrassment. I fully understand that I’m not actually fat, so saying it sounds absurd to others and I’m worried about people laughing at me. But I think the real reason I don’t say it is because when I say I’m fat, the response is always:
“You’re not fat.”
I cannot stand people telling me that I’m not fat.
“You are not fat.”
I hate it so much that I even resent the words themselves when they’re written completely out of context. Even writing this blog post is making me angry.
There aren’t really words to describe the feelings that come over me when someone suggests that I am not fat, but basically it makes me so angry that my whole body tenses up and I feel sick in the stomach, I often shudder or have to turn my head away, and suddenly I get a really strong urge to do very violent things to myself.
I’m afraid one day that I will lose control and actually do those things to myself. I’m very, very afraid that that will happen. So I avoid that conversation altogether.
This might seem like a good solution, but what it means is that I am never, ever able to talk to anyone else about what is actually going in my head. All the horrible thoughts just sit there and fester in my mind. The longer I refuse to talk about my body image, the more warped and twisted my concept of myself becomes and the more anorexia begins to take over.
I wish I could speak about my problems, but I don’t know how to without becoming a danger to myself. Years of speaking to psychologists didn’t work, because I was never able to say what I was really thinking.
It’s strange how the illness is so self-perpetuating like that.
I wish I could write beautiful words, but I can’t. I can’t write amazing poems and interesting posts like everyone else. Somehow, in my head, I’ve even managed to turn blogging into some kind of competition where I feel like a failure and I feel like everyone else is better at it than I am. I hate everything that I write. It’s only meant to be my diary. I don’t know why it matters whether I’m good at it or not, but it does. For some reason I expect myself to be brilliant at everything. But I’m terrible at everything I do, and that makes me so sad.
I suppose it doesn’t really matter though, because I feel worthless regardless of whether I succeed at things or not. Being successful doesn’t make me hate myself any less.
I wish I didn’t hate myself so much.
I’m not feeling very well 😞
I’m feeling pretty sad tonight.
I don’t really feel like I have any reason to be here. I try really hard to care about my job, but I just don’t. I only go to work so I can earn money. I’m not in any kind of relationship, I don’t have any pets, I don’t even have any hobbies. When I’m not at work, I’m at home in bed doing nothing. I only get out of bed to eat, wash clothes, or to exercise and burn calories. Nothing really brings me any joy. I don’t really care about anything. I want to care, but I just don’t. I feel like there’s something wrong with me, and I don’t feel normal or like anyone else has this problem. I feel like a defective human being and I really don’t feel like I deserve to exist.
I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore…I’ve started running again.
I love running, more than anything. I did so much sport as a child. I was obsessed with sport. I honestly believe I had issues with exercise addiction long before I ever developed anorexia. So returning to physical activity feels kind of like coming home. I feel like myself again.
At the same time, I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t be able to stop running. I live in perpetual fear of losing control of my mind and ending up on a slippery slope back down to anorexia, hospital and death. I don’t want to go back there. I am pretty certain that I don’t even want to die anymore. So why am I doing this? Is it because it’s part of who I am and I’m still the sport obsessed little kid that I used to be? Or is this just anorexia being as cunning as ever, tricking me into thinking I’m okay when I’m not?
I don’t know 😔
I should be able to exercise and just enjoy it, like any other person. But the worries snowball so fast. I am so afraid of myself. I’m still eating. Theoretically, I should be absolutely fine. But the fear is always there.