It’s an internally haunting space to be in upon coming to the realization most of the people who care, I pay. Not to sell myself short of those who care, but they don’t know all the details. The only people that have all the details, are paid professionals. And I am too afraid to let people in my real life know all the details. I am certain they’ll stop caring. I am indubitably afraid I am not worthy of their love–that they will think significantly less of me if they did know everything.

It seems like the minute I’m eating adequately, I dive into existential depression and the only thing I’ve truly found to get out is to stop eating so much and start losing weight. That’s what I’m inclined to do right now. That urge is colossal.

No one actually cares. You’re not worth anyone’s time. Even those you pay.

Then it clicks. This is survival.

Surviving the desperate place I take myself in these moments requires connection. Or, survival looks like the opposite: a complete disconnect of my body to myself.

Choose connection. Choose life.

Or

Choose disconnection, choose emotional & spiritual death. Followed by a very slow physical death.

Simple, yet entirely complicated.

It makes me a shitty human being if I knowingly choose the latter. It used to be I didn’t realize I was making that choice. Now I’m faced with it not being so automatic which is a huge improvement, but I’m feeling so guilty for even contemplating disconnection. Which is choosing my eating disorder. Which is the wrong choice.

But the thing is, I’ve been feeling A LOT. And much of that is the not-so-good feelings. The waves keep coming and if it never ends I don’t know if I can handle being this emotional all the time.

I am 7, worried too much crying will get me in trouble. I am 10, sitting alone outside in the dark where no one will find me, wrapping my arms around my legs, knees to chest. I am 15, writing back and forth in a journal with a friend, that my dad finds, reads, and blows up, confiscating my teenage heart poured out onto paper.

I am 7+10+15=32 still worried I won’t be accepted if I keep crying, still holding on to my own flesh, still pouring all of it out in words.

I am holding on to 7 and 10 and 15 because those versions of me had so much hope and fire despite all that emotion and 32 isn’t sure she’s worth fighting for.

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