Sometimes I wonder that maybe I lie so hard to myself that I can no longer see real from fabricated. What did I do? What did I pretend I did? What were my struggles? What did I imagine?
Sometimes I wonder that maybe I'm so ill that I pretend I'm lying just to ease the pain. An infinite inception of lies, it goes further than a web. No black widow could walk through these doors and remain unharmed. The complication of this labyrinth and the monsters that hide beneath the floorboards and inside the walls is beyond that which the deepest imagination could conceive. And me? I am hidden deeper than the monsters. I found myself lost inside the misty forest, and the more I think about it, the harder I find it is to remember when I was not lost but on a visible path that had an end and a beginning. Did such a path ever exist?
Furthermore, if I am so lost and so hidden inside the depths of my own forest - does that make me more in touch with myself or more separated? Am I lost or simply in the perfect place for exploration?
Start again.
Fragments of memories keep me awake at night. The memories that are cased shut in a safe in the inner depths of a maximum security prison. They cannot be retrieved. Yet as I lie in my bed and beg for sleep, my brain opens the oven doors, just to check that they remain inside their cell.
A split second of laughter. I hear a group of people laughing yet I see nothing but darkness. They surround me and smother me with their laughter yet I can't see them. Someone has taken a permanent marker and scribbled over and over. I know why. But you won't know why. You won't ever know why they laughed and why I deserved the laughter. You won't ever know how much every split second of laughter is a fresh wave of pain, and how each wave is building itself larger and larger until a tsunami will finally break down my walls.
That problem was real as real. I cannot lie about how tangible that laughter was, because I was never alone for that split-second and that was the problem. The incident is not imprinted in my memory, but the reaction - the laughter is what I remember. Sitting on the bottom of the bathroom floor and shoving fingers down your throat is somehow less tangible. The pain is the same but when the pain in my throat heals I know the memory will heal as well. You cannot forget the crimes that your attacker committed when you see their face every day, unless that face is found in the mirror.
Start again.
I'm writing this to no one. Not because it's important, but because this moment of truth is unlikely to ever appear again. I do not even know the time but I know I do not want to return to my bed, my chamber, my prison.
The truth.
The truth is I don't know where I stand.
The truth is I can't remember the ins and outs of my problems.
I was desperate to be skinny.
That kind of desperation does something to a person. Moulds you, shapes you, forms you into a new scuplture. Hopefully a skinnier one. Desperation to be noticed. Being skinny got you noticed. It had allways got me noticed. That was why people liked me. I had no other likeable features so that must have been why they liked me. That was why they liked her more, because she was more skinny.
I cracked the code to the universe. The amount people like you is directly proportionate to how little you eat.
So I won't eat.
I didn't.
I wouldn't.
I couldn't.
I never thought this was me. I never thought I was capable. But I was. I was more capable of destruction than I was of salvation. I had only cruised down the road but suddenly I was pelting down the hill and the breaks had gone. I had taken them out a long time ago when they seemed so insignificant. How stupid I was.
This is where most people's story will end. They pelt down the hill and off the end before they even realise there was a hill to travel down. But not me. I kicked through the floor of my car and stuck out my feet. It hurt like hell but somehow, slowly the car stopped.
Now I was standing alone, half way down this hill with a broken car and soulless feet.
Hardest part over right? Fucking wrong.
I stopped tumbling, sure. But that means nothing. I was still half way down the hill, looking up at the huge height I had fallen from. It had taken mere seconds to fall this far - it could take years to climb back up to the summit of health.
All I could do was push.
Push the car back up the hill.
I'd push a mile up; slip a mile and a half down.
But this is a story about a car and that isn't the truth.
It's very easy to tell a story about a car and a hill.
It's very difficult to tell a story about food and weight.
I would stand on the scales; see that I was 2 stone underweight. I would feel ill. I would cry. I would spend a week eating proper, real hearty food. I could do it. I could gain the weight.
I would see a difference. See a bulge. I would gain a pound. I would feel ill. I would cry. I would spend a week eating empty, calorie-free food. I could do it. I could lose the weight.
And the cycle starts again.