You Can't Hurt Me If I'm Already Gone

Can sex ever be casual? Or is so fundamentally intimate that you can never truly divorce your heart and your body? I thought I could. Every day I punish my body until it aches, my head screaming 'you fucking fool' but really, my heart throbs with satisfaction. There is nothing as satisfying as hunger pangs, followed by the moral purity of denial and then, the scale rewarding your starvation. I thought sex with the User was simply a manifestation of my relationship with Ana. You're fucking up your body, why not literally? He called me today, I lay in the clearing in the woods, conscious of the irony. This is my favorite place in the world, I never showed it to you, and it was here I wanted to make love to you. A nauseauting cliche but I just wanted love. I wanted you to fuck a person, not a body. I found out from the Beautiful One he fucked some girl two days after we first had sex. Today he told me because he thought we were in a relationship and he couldn't handle it. Oh god, the irony, the fucking, choking, bitter irony of it all. I just wanted to be exclusive. Casual, exclusive, sex. Why did I sit and weep after he hung up? Because I told him we couldn't be friends? Because I felt manipulated and deceived? Or because he managed to touch this cold, numb, hollow shell? Maybe I was mourning myself and wallowing in the most comforting emotion I know: self-pity. I don't know what to do. I feel so contricted, claustrophobic but paradoxically, utterly alone.

I told him I only had sex with him because he was so fucked up, I couldn't possibly fuck him up anymore. I meant it. That's why I can't pursue the Beautiful One and contaminate her. I destroy everything I touch, and anything I let touch me in turn destroys me. I feel like I'm disintegrating and it is so liberating. I don't even have to think anymore - subsisting on my mantra: Eat nothing, starve forever.

Love Letter From Your Dead

I walk into the room, you look up, those fierce seconds then you look away
I first feel it in the iron in my throat, then fat splashes streak my paper. I clutch my nose, the blood pouring through my fingers. You look at me; you remember what I told The Male Shoulder and those eyes, cold.
The drugs were always there. If you loved me, you loved those illusions that had drawn about myself. And you hated drugs, you hated weed, I remember in history your righteous facts about schizophrenia. But coke – my illusion – you had no sermon. But perhaps you didn’t need to, preaching to me through coldness instead. Melting the distance, I just fuelled your hatred, your fear.
Did you fear me? Or did you pity me, did you see the lies, the shrouding, was I waving or drowning?
The necklace I gave you, the mocking Valentine poem, the letter about Self-Righteous Bitch in which a hypothetical you/me question was raised – do they mean anything to you? Like the scraps of paper of notes we scribbled in maths, the code I search for in my leaving message – that is all I have of you. But my deception was all permeating, was I ever truthful? Those notes, my lies, my life I presented to you – vivid, brightly contrasting, living somewhere between euphoria and tragedy – that’s where I wanted to be and wanted you to join me. I lived my lies so completely, I did, I believed what I said, the lies were real and you believed them. Your jealousy feeding my rage at my own failures. If these imaginary boys loved/wanted me, you would too.
Perhaps men/boys like you are integral to life. You are devastating: a year later I’m still healing. But it is not you that inflicted any real pain, it was entirely me. And yet, the pain rises in my throat, I want to cry and weep and rage and rage until – the pain is so sharp I can’t see past it. I cannot imagine living and never seeing you again or hearing your voice and yet this year I have managed. The User distracting me, school distracting me, my own logic. I need to hear your voice, so you can become 3D again. And yet I am acutely aware – I may have meant something, but now, I mean nothing.
Daisy, you have to stay in touch – walking back through the stables. I promise. And what of you? You never made any such promise, you knew I’d come back. My two texts you never replied to. Did you not receive them or am I now part of your life compartmented away? An irritating memory, disposable.
I am aware of the distinction between comforting fantasy and reality. I am comforted by my dreams. Every love song, every film, every book reminds me of my own huge failures. I’m 17 and already I feel constricted by time, to return to 14, to my years with Amy, I would change everything. Regret is futile: how can you love the unlovable? No matter what she said, she could have said anything, been anyone and you still wouldn’t have loved her. I am so tired, so very, very tired of being uncomfortable in my own skin. Of feeling, exhausted of being me. I am sick of the idea of you – you seldom comfort me, only condemn my failures, my inexperience. I pretend to be wise, experienced, and I will always have to. It is too late, this 17th year a year of intense claustrophobia, of doors closing, of regret, of loneliness and of facades and wishes. Of broken resolutions, of failed hopes, of voids and of intense regret. I made many mistakes, and there is no time. You’re a pattern repeated throughout my life.

Day Two of post-exam fasting. Already obsessing over food... until I found this to remind me just how much i hate myself for bingeing and how much everyone else hates you for it. I'd forgotten how much i love fasting - that feeling of perfect emptiness, the euphoric high of walking past the fridge and resisting. Feeling so strong right now - found out the User fucked some girl two days after me... was feeling naive, dirty and used until the hollow high hit. Fuck him. I cant control my life but i can control my body. food is a choice. and we can all say no.
http://www.newsoftheworld.co.uk/showbiz/370850/Kerry-Katona-in-shock-photos-after-eating-3-main-courses.html

Revision, revision, revision.... So instead I went and took some photos in the garden... Perhaps my obsession with flowers is slightly sad and kitsch given my name, but to me, there is no nothing more perfect or beautiful than flowers. I could philosophize pretentiously forever on how transiently beautiful they are, even in their decay but even more than that, I find the idea of perfection intoxicating. Everyone I've ever met or read about with an ED seems obsessed with perfection (me included) but has anyone ever attained it? Has anyone out there ever reached their goal weight and achieved happiness? Or are we trapped forever like this, pursuing an ever more elusive image of perfection? Will it always be like this: Starve, binge, purge, starve, binge, purge, in an inevitable cycle of destruction?

Five days until exams are over and I can start living again.

Three weeks before I go to Europe for two weeks with my best friends.

A month until I turn 18.

Three months to reach perfection.

And I can't wait.... lots and lots of uninihibited crazy sex with the User. Who cares if i hate myself for this, for every gram of fat that dissolves, surely that gram cancels all the self-loathing and disgust? All my posts have been very depressing recently, but really I am so, so happy. This euphoric emptiness combined with being in love... love the ultimate appetite suppressant. I used to dream about gorging on cake and painting my body in icing but now she's all I think about. I've always loved her and now she feels something and even if it's only curioristy, I'm in hopeful love and I've never felt anything close to hopeful love before.

Fucking A levels. I feel like my brain is disintegrating. The possession I treasure more than anything - my mind. Why do we sacrifice everything for that elusive dream of perfection? Fuck strangers until you're numb, drugs to escape and starve until you feel real again. I can live like that. But without my brain, my thoughts, the connections, the visions, the words, I can't exist. So for today, tomorrow and until the end of my exams I will nourish my brain. And then I will pursue that toxic dream until it destroys or perfects me.

On the dark, dew drenched lawn, The Beautiful One's fingernails scratch my skin. She laughs, "I'm not lesbian." Sure, just don't stop kissing me. Your fingers entwined in my hair, your hip bones grinding against mine, I run my hands across the ridges of your spine. This is perfection. You are perfect.

"I'm just drunk."

So am I.

"Promise me, you won't tell anyone?"

I love you.

Still?

Always.