It has been one month of exploring the eating disorder, my emotions, the blackness, the self-hate, the anger, the need for compassion and understanding, the need for peace. The search for peace continues, not to be found solely in food, but to be sought in everything: fighting going to the bathroom, waking up infuriated, drinking too much, anxiety about sex, fear of sitting down and slowing down. This is the search for emotion, for being – the ability to just BE. Being happy with me, being cognizant of what I can and cannot change where it comes to my personality, being mindful but not obsessive about it, being lost.
I would not characterize myself as lost right now. Being lost to me sounds whiter, brighter, glowier than this place. I am not lost to myself, because I cannot lose myself. I think too much to lose myself – in this way, I am very much found. However, I feel lost to everyone else. I am at a loss of their empathy, their thoughtfulness, their telepathy. I feel like they should know what I am thinking and just do it, stop asking my permission and just do, just get out their life rafts, reach down and help me just be.
I remember too much and too little at the same time. Remembering too much means the hurt, the pain I have caused others, the pain they’ve caused me, the daily fear and anxiety and screaming-inside-so-loud-that-if-you-don’t-scream-out-loud-your-heart-will-burst. Remembering too little means how to be quiet, how to be at peace, how to lose myself in what I do and who I’m with (not always thinking about something else or mentally being somewhere else, somewhere next – is this because none of my presents are where I want to be? I don’t think so, because the thoughts don’t always drift to somewhere better; often, they drift deeper into the well). For such a smart person, I am having a fucking really difficult time being a person.