same battle

sometimes, i see others fighting the same battle, and i know.

girls with bony fingers in 3 sweaters with their chest bones poking through skin, faces soft and round from purging, standing in front of the salad bar staring, lost in thought.

girls clutching tea in their tiny hands, slaving in the library for 8 hours, tiny legs swimming in too-big jeans, hair limp and brittle with bags under their frightened eyes.

girls walking down the stairs and up the stairs the same way that i do—to the private bathroom, the one that locks, to get rid of dinner, wash their face, rinse their mouths, then run back up the stairs (head swimming and knees shaking) back to their friends to laugh about class like nothing happened.

the scarier thing, though, is all the ones i don’t see—all the ones i can’t find. it isn’t always obvious. i am struggling, desperate, face covered in broken blood vessels covered with concealer, but this “voluptuous,” “curvy” disgusting fat pig body won’t communicate what’s going on inside. i know there are hundreds of others whose bodies won’t show what’s inside.

whenever i see it, though, i try to catch their eyes and send them love, and rays, and hope. i see you, i try to say. i know. i am sorry. 

every day

fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat fat FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT 

FAT FUCKING PIG

GO FUCKING KILL YOURSELF

it is so exhausting to think this all day

it is so horrifying to want more than anything to tell someone—anyone—what’s going on in your head, and not to be able to, because if you do, you’re weak and attention seeking and a burden a huge fucking BURDEN and everyone will leave you and you’re not sick you’re too fucking FAT TO BE SICK 

it is so miserable to not want to leave your room ever again because everyone will see your disgusting fucking flesh bouncing and jiggling, everyone will see and finally realize what a disgusting fat fuck you are and everyone is talking about it and thinking about it you fucking fat fat fat FAT FUCKING PIG

it is so tempting to think about all the ways it would be easier to die

fireandfry:

I’m really quite furious at myself for failing so miserably at being independent. I’m always lonely and wanting someone to be affectionate with. It’s pathetic.

(Source: pastabitch, via baby-vomit)