Slipping (ED trigger)

 

 

 

It seems fitting that this is one of this week’s Postsecrets.  I connect with this confessor like an echo.

My blood pressure is finally starting to settle down around 135/98 (best it’s been in months).

All I feel is Her teeth gnawing at my ankles.

Her dry and stale breath washing over my face when I close my eyes.

Her hissing words vibrating in my chest.  Stop eating. Stop smelling. Stop looking. Stop tasting. You don’t deserve any of this.

It has settled around the time of my birthday, which I would think is strange except I realize this is a time where I feel friends and family trying to fatten me up like a farm animal.  Just in time for the county fair.

Fat pigs need to starve

I’m not sure if I can step away this time.  I felt a taste of Her will a couple months ago and managed to shake it off.  But this time…

This time does feel like coming home.

Like I’ve been lost and cold for so very long.  There is finally a comfortable hearth I can settle in front of of and warm this aching chill.

I can trade the time intended for consuming that lumpy fat others call food.  I can trade it for sleeping. For daydreaming. For running. For hiking. For all the things in the world that will make me strong and clean and empty.  

Empty is good.  Empty is safe.  Empty is accepting.

Trying to be a protector

(Trigger warning.  Bad language, dark thoughts, and slight sexual talk.)

He fucked someone else.

He’s the one who fucking decided to not speak to us for weeks, acts all apologetic when he comes to visit us in the hospital, and then last night he decides to tell Charlotte he’s fucked someone else.

While they’re in the MIDDLE of foreplay.

Fucking classy, right?  Motherfucking classy.

I wanted to put my boot through his shitty fucking face.  But I didn’t get to control that situation.  Since it was a fucking sexual situation, control falls to fucking Charlotte.

Fucking Charlotte.

So fucking needy in her fucking needs that when he drops that gem of a bombshell, she fucking pauses, stares at him a second while internally WE LOSE OUR FUCKING SHIT.

Then she carries on like nothing fucking happened.

Fucking fantastic.

She fucks him not one, but twice after that little gem of information.  She tries to justify it by saying she didn’t try hard (yeah right).  But that’s not even the fucking point.
Then she needles him.  She fucking push, push, pushes the shithead to admit that the cocksucker’s fling of betrayal was shitty.  Great fuckwit.  I don’t fucking care if it was the shittiest lay you ever had.

You’re still a fuckhead.

He spends half the fucking night trying to say how beautiful, how lovely, how gorgeous we are (stupid fucking V told him about the body image issues and most recent laxative use).

It all fell on fucking deaf ears.

All I can fucking hear in here is how awful we must look for him to go out and find someone else to fuck.

Shit.

Now I have to fucking deal with a brand new spiral of self-hate after we just dug ourself out from the last one.

Thank you motherfucking shithead of a fuckwit.  I’m putting up a fucking banner.  We aren’t going fucking back to him.  This is it.  Charlotte filled her fucking void.  She’s done for a couple weeks.

We finally found a fucking doctor who will see us (appointment tomorrow) so we don’t fucking need his medical fucking ability.

The fuckhead can just stay away.  Stay the fuck away.

Don’t need these fucking mind games.  We already create our own shit.

Hoping the fucking doctor tomorrow can help.  And I’ve never fucking hoped on doctors for shit.

Anything to calm them down.  Thinking they’re fat and ugly and unfuckable.  Jesus.
Charlotte fucked the man twice and he certainly had no issues performing.  Ya’ll are fuckable.  Chill the fuck out.  It’s him that’s unfuckable.  I’m sure the low class whore of a bitch he found was like, 400 pounds and had the worse butterface in fucking existence.

I’m with Middi on this front.  If meds can help, I’ll allow them.

Especially with the numb fucking hands being the worse they’ve been in awhile this morning. Can barely put the fucking bra on.

So that’s our fucking weekend.

Hope ya’ll are fucking good.

-Rika

Silver streaking pain

(*trigger warning: ED talk)

I stupidly binged last night. Dumbdumbdumb.

I wish I had the courage or ability to just get rid of it immediately. A simple up and out. But I don’t.

So I broke out the laxatives today. First time in awhile. 

I forgot about the stabbing knife-like pain. Silver streaks dancing through my stomach and flashing through my head.  Their sweet singing flickering through each ear, taunting me, encouraging me.

Need to feel that glorious empty. The sharp bite of bright white clean. The echoing flavor of nothingness.

I just wish it didn’t have to be painful. I really hate pain.

But pain is beauty. And I’m never quite close enough.

-Victoria

Wishes about Dad

I lied.  I do sort of have something to say.

I wish my dad was more like this dad or this great-with-acronyms-dad.

The ED is rampant today.  With my birthday being this weekend and a huge bash at a local drive-in movie theater being planned by Texas, I’m feeling fat, ugly, and just….awful.  I just want to not touch food until after Saturday night.

But I know I can’t do that and still keep this struggle a secret.  I have so many social events over the next 4 days.  And birthday dinners with various relatives.

I’m trying not to go crazy.

But it’s hard.

I just wish I had someone to be my rock, my raft, my life vest.

Well.  I wish my father would.  That he could even consider it.
I don’t understand why I try so hard to be a Daddy’ Girl, even though I know it will never happen.  But I always try.

I try to be that daughter he can be proud of.

And that’s why this must remain a secret.