THAT IM TWO YEARS BINGE/PURGE/SELF HARM FREE!
thank you to everyone who believed in me enough to make me see my own strength, you’ll all have a special place in my heart.
“i want to be beautiful like a Supernova is beautiful.
all at once, then not at all.”
talking to someone in rehab is both heartbreaking and comforting.
to know that someone else thought the exact things you did, suffered and conquered and crumbled.
In the morning, the light comes through my window. I can see all the dust that just floats in the air. It’s beautiful and shapeless. It’s something I aspire to be. I don’t want a body anymore, I want an atmosphere. I want to be completely weightless. I want miles of wind for hair and two large lakes for eyes.
Do you ever wish such things?
Marla and I made paper snowflakes this afternoon. We hung them around the room, on all the window sills. She sang Christmas carols and I started to miss you. I don’t want to miss you anymore.
I want a Christmas without you. I want a fouth of July without you. I want a day without you.”
“I do this thing, where I stare in the mirror at my face. Sometimes the pure agony of being in my skin puts a bitter taste in my mouth. I just get this urge to touch my face and feel my shape and bones. I start to pick and scratch and it becomes this trance. Before I know it I will have messed with all my imperfections, and 30 minutes will have gone by. It’s scary. It’s crazy, how we can lose ourselves. How you can stare at a face until it’s no longer a face. You look long enough and it’s just skin. You stare continuously and then it’s just matter. Pretty soon the feeling of wanting to escape it subsides. It’s just you, and your face, and your bones, and your soul.
And it’s okay.
It’s going to be okay. “
1 year self harm free.
When i feel like I’m going nowhere, I remember that I made it through and feel okay.
Thanks for the support, always. <3
I don’t know who to give these letters to. I think I’ll give them to your mom. I know how much you hate it when people touch your things. It hurts me to know that so many people are going through your room, deciding what to keep and what to let go. I was asked if I wanted anything - but I wouldn’t know what to take.
Sometimes, I think I made you up inside my head. I feel like you’re still here and I find myself talking to you. I know that sounds crazy - because everyone is so painfully aware that you’re gone. I want to ask you why. I want to know the answers, more so I want to know the right questions to ask.
You were so damn stubborn, once you made up your mind there was no changing it. This is the hardest damn part. I hate talking about you in past tense. I hate that people remember you in past tense.
I wake up at night feeling anxious. Like I’m frantically trying to remember as much as I can about you, so that I never forget. I keep repeating your middle name. It’s important. It’s the little things about you that are the best.
There are so many questions I need answered.
Do I delete your number from my phone? Does that make you even more gone?
It makes me sick to think of people touching your books. What if someone bends the pages?
I forgive you, for leaving us all here. This will be the last letter that I write to you. I called your mom and told her that I would take your sketchbook. It’s something you created, it’s something you gave life to. I want to hold on to that life for as long as I can.
I miss you. I always will.