Intermission for Introspection

Every time I post on here, it makes me wish I had better things to post about. Happier things. An accomplishment. A pro vs. a con. SOMETHING.

But it seems like I continually come on here to write about how terrible my life is and 'poor me'. I don't want pity. I don't want everything to sound so bad. I wish I could make up something just to break away from the monotonous despair that seems to lurk around every corner.

I used to be afraid. I used to be so fucking afraid of everything. Life scared me. Death scared me. Alone scared me. People scared me. Everything. I'm not sure if it was better then or now. At least then I had some sense of self preservation. Now I don't care. I have lost the fear and in its wake I found a sense of recklessness. I don't really give a fuck if I starve myself to death, or if I die from alcohol poisoning. I'm going to continue to eat bad and drink until I throw up. Shit happens.
The reason I'm still alive and haven't killed myself off yet though, is because I don't WANT to give up. I want to stick around and see how the story ends. I could never puss-out on my sister or myself like that.

Sometimes I wonder if this is it. If this is as happy as I'm going to be. I wonder if I'm doing it wrong. I googled 'how to be happy' last night and was honestly hoping for an answer. Just a simple answer like 'wear a more bracelets' or 'brush your teeth four times a day'. Something stupid.
Needless to say, I didn't find what I was looking for.

Stuck in another one of my bouts of introspection, I started wondering why I can't seem to figure out this food thing. Even if I was underweight, I don't think I would qualify as being disordered. I'm not good enough. Why is it so fucking hard? All I want is 10 lbs off here, another 10 off there. It's not like I'm trying to lose 100 lbs.

I wonder if my mom knew she would end up with an fat daughter. When I was younger I used to always think about how unfortunate the fat 20-something girls were and how ashamed their mothers must feel. Now I don't just feel guilty because I'm a fat slob. Now I feel guilty because my family has to be seen with me.

I'm not even sure what the difference between nervous-break-down and I'm-fine is. I wanted to get on the scale this morning. I managed to work myself up into a fit. I was a fat mess full of tears with a flushed face thinking I'm 140-something even though I've never weighed that much in my life.

The scale tells me I'm 126. You know what I think? I think the scale is a fucking liar. There is NO WAY IN HELL I'm 126. I HAVE to be two-hundred-and-fucking-something. I can see it in my face. My cheeks are fat and round. I see it in my hips. They're thick and wide. I see it in my stomach. It's bloated and awful. My arms are "mommy arms". My thighs are ruined.

I can't fucking stand my body. I've said it before and I'll say it a thousand more times. I. Can't. Fucking. Stand. My. Body.

Things don't make sense anymore.

It seems I have suddenly lost the ability to relate my life to you guys. I don't have the right words to describe the way my parents are yelling tonight. I don't have the right phrases to explain why G hates me so much but says he won't leave me for the army because he "just can't". I don't know how to tell you that my world comes crashing down every time I look in a mirror and despite the fact that I hate myself so much, I am my favorite subject to dwell on.



XOXO Sophia Ruins <3