My veins are pulsing.

I know it must be excruciatingly difficult for people without an eating disorder to understand. I didn’t ask for or provoke such conversation, but it happened. I stood callously by as someone else’s story was told in jest. She could have been telling my story.

This is exactly why I cannot even fathom the strength it must take to own up to something so serious, when the receiving end might think it’s a fucking joke.

So I remain safe in my bubble of anonymity, but with tears streaming down my cheeks, for that girl (who might as well be me).

My veins are pulsing.

I am sad, the purest kind of sad. I have never felt like it is ok to be sad and that makes me feel guilty, all the time, for having such outlawed emotions.

I’m not even sure why I’m sad. But it’s there. When there is no more anxiety left in my system, the bluest, coldest, corner of my mind is unleashed, unable to be tamed. It runs wild once available, and I, despite being cognizant of the human ability to make choices, let it run free and wild. Rampant.

My veins are pulsing.

I feel trapped. I feel unable to communicate. I feel fake. I am hungry. I am lost. I am needing so much from so many people, but physically unable to allow anyone anyone all the way in.

My veins are pulsing.

A high so intoxicating, that nothing else matters. My short-term memory is wiped and my long term memory taunts me.

My veins are pulsing.

I want it to stop.

But I need it to keep going.

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