__burningmeaway @ 2008-04-06T22:14:00

2008-04-07T02:19:13Z

    My life is complex because I make it to be that way. I make my own decisions, whether they benefit me or not, and I ultimately control my own destiny. Each night as I lay awake, itching to break out of my own skin, I make a promise to myself that the next morning when I wake, I will regain control of my life. For my own sake, I will make structured, well planned changes and eventually find happiness. I know, and have always known, that life does not work that way. I mean this in the least egotistical way, but I have always been somewhat of an old soul. I was never a happy-go-lucky toddler, or a carefree child. There has always been a cloud of uncertainty lifelessly hovering over my head that only I could see. That is why, I believe, that I was doomed to fall to an eating disorder.
    My mother often jokes about my perfectionist tendencies. I laugh with her, because that seems to be a less embarrassing alternative to crying and screaming at her. She tells me that when I was learning to write, if I made a mistake on my homework or even practicing on my own, I would have to tear the paper out of my notebook, rip it up and start fresh. I don’t doubt that she scolded me for my wastefulness, always making me to believe that we had less money than we actually did. However I couldn’t help myself. The thought of continuing to create those perfect, careful, cookie-cutter letters on a flawed paper made me sick. It was so much easier to just say fuck it and begin again on a blank sheet. If my parents were psychologists specializing in children, they might have seen this as a warning sign, or a preface to what would be my painstaking and unsuccessful climb to brilliance. It’s exactly how I spend my time now. Messing up, saying fuck it (only now I say it out loud), and trying again tomorrow.
    I’m not condoning my behavior, nor am I promising to stop it. I know that the coming weeks leading up to the move are going to be hell for me. This house, particularly my room where I sit now, contain within their walls so many awful memories for me. Nights spent crying, binging, crying more, throwing things at walls are what come to mind when I think of this house. I will remember days of trying to starve myself to death, and evenings caving in to hunger and promising to kill myself another way. It should come as no surprise that I have long since realized that I am no where near strong enough to actually kill myself. That should come as a relief, but instead it just makes me feel fat and worthless.
    I can’t tell my parents what I do because I’m too ashamed and knowing that I put that extra burden on them would make me more miserable than I am now, if that’s possible. Still, it would be nice to scream in their faces that they made me this way, and they should have to deal with the consequences. It’s unfortunate that life does not have a “You break it, you fix it” policy.
    Over five years of my life have been wasted on this disorder. It’s a problem I have no solution for. Trying to fix it only drives me further into it, and continuing to live like this will leave me more lonely, crazed and depressed. This is not my proclamation that I have found a simple cure for any and all eating disorders. It is merely a calm version of one of the rants you read everyday, only this one makes you no promises of a better tomorrow. I make my own decisions and I control my own destiny. Don’t be surprised to see me in the same disheartened position tomorrow.

__burningmeaway @ 2007-12-22T15:42:00

2007-12-22T20:42:29Z

Answer anonymously:

1. One secret.
2. One compliment.
3. One non-compliment.
4. One love note, but it does not have to be for me.
5. Lyrics to a song.
6. How old you are.
7. How long we've been friends.
8. And a hint to who you are.