Lori
07-30-2010, 07:18 PM
I'm going to relapse. I can feel it. I'm waiting for the moment where I'll cave in, pull open the drawer and pick up the blade I haven't touched in a year, and press it to my skin.
But I don't want to.
It's summer. I instinctively cut on my forearm - but how could I with short sleeves? I could do it on my thigh, my hips, my stomach - but then the guys I sleep with to make myself feel pretty and skinny and wanted will see, and I won't be able to handle the look in their eyes or even them telling me they don't want a psychopath like me.
No. I keep my crazy life and my sex life separate.
But why do they have to share the same body? I'm close with my friends. I change in front of them. How could I go to the home of the guy I'm in love with, the one who sat up with me while I cried on the phone when we were together, who cares about me and loves me in the only way he can, and let him see what I've done? (He's gay, in case you were wondering.)
But worst of all, I want to talk to someone. I just want to open up to someone and say "Hey, listen, I'm really close to relapsing and I could use someone to talk to."
But that will open up a whole different can of worms. Then I'd have to spill about the guys I've been sleeping with, and how terrified I am of everything coming up in my future, and how much I hate myself, and my bulimia, and how I still want to kill myself. (Even though I never would. I don't have the balls.)
I can't say anything to anyone. Not just because of telling them everything. No - that's not the real issue. I mean, it's an issue, but it's not THE issue.
The real issue is that I can't stand telling someone I feel like relapsing, having them take their time and their compassion to try to soothe me, only to have it all fall apart later when I inevitably do it again. I can't stand the look on their face when they finally see that I did it anyway - first, the look of horror; then, the look of disappointment; and lastly, the look of guilt, like they should have been able to do something to stop me, like my issues are something for them to worry over.
And then the guilt will get to me. How could I have put them through that? I'm such a worthless piece of shit.
And it will happen again. And again. And again.
And it will get to a point where I won't stop.
But I don't want to.
It's summer. I instinctively cut on my forearm - but how could I with short sleeves? I could do it on my thigh, my hips, my stomach - but then the guys I sleep with to make myself feel pretty and skinny and wanted will see, and I won't be able to handle the look in their eyes or even them telling me they don't want a psychopath like me.
No. I keep my crazy life and my sex life separate.
But why do they have to share the same body? I'm close with my friends. I change in front of them. How could I go to the home of the guy I'm in love with, the one who sat up with me while I cried on the phone when we were together, who cares about me and loves me in the only way he can, and let him see what I've done? (He's gay, in case you were wondering.)
But worst of all, I want to talk to someone. I just want to open up to someone and say "Hey, listen, I'm really close to relapsing and I could use someone to talk to."
But that will open up a whole different can of worms. Then I'd have to spill about the guys I've been sleeping with, and how terrified I am of everything coming up in my future, and how much I hate myself, and my bulimia, and how I still want to kill myself. (Even though I never would. I don't have the balls.)
I can't say anything to anyone. Not just because of telling them everything. No - that's not the real issue. I mean, it's an issue, but it's not THE issue.
The real issue is that I can't stand telling someone I feel like relapsing, having them take their time and their compassion to try to soothe me, only to have it all fall apart later when I inevitably do it again. I can't stand the look on their face when they finally see that I did it anyway - first, the look of horror; then, the look of disappointment; and lastly, the look of guilt, like they should have been able to do something to stop me, like my issues are something for them to worry over.
And then the guilt will get to me. How could I have put them through that? I'm such a worthless piece of shit.
And it will happen again. And again. And again.
And it will get to a point where I won't stop.