Body like a Bomb Ticking…

So here’s my honest train of thought. Putting a trigger warning right here for anyone sensitive to body image particularly. It’s just me and my raw mind here…

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. Because all the while I am aware, and by aware I mean I can feel, without moving my hands, just in my being, my disgusting gut-wrenching body parts colliding with and squashing one another. My boobs being the biggest perpetrators… the sports bra, the one that compromises for a bra so that I don’t feel the extra bits squashed in-between the wiring and the straps, presses on my front chest, and I fear if it does more-so than yesterday. Every day that worry gets heavier. I close my eyes because the thought hurts, but then closing my eyes doesn’t take that away, so instead I am a robot with this virus USB stick of body hatred that cannot be removed.

Not having had a shower in a couple of weeks now doesn’t seem a big deal because if it means not having to physically accept myself by touching and washing all the parts of me that I despise, then I won’t do it. It represents my life in limbo. Knowing that the only way that would make this better is to lose weight (the Bulimic play-doh that has added onto me), and exercise to feel good about my body. To feel the weight of it thudding around on the ground though, is too terrifying to consider pushing through. Because I’ve been there before… and I’ve been here before. There just doesn’t seem a way out.

When I hold something in my hand, all I can see are the extra creases my hand has that it shouldn’t, or it wouldn’t, if I wasn’t this greedy fat mess. The parts of my fingers bent, create the look of stacked, stumpy cocktail sausages, which sits any remaining sense of being feminine, one side of a see-saw, and jumping on the other end so hard it fires off into space.

My boobs itch, but my sports bra needs to remain to stop the hatred overflowing out of both of my ears and drowning me. The last time I did take it off to change it, I felt sabotaged by something else… the boulders that are attached to me as extra flesh I don’t need to survive, extra disgusting, heavy, rounded flesh – what if they touch my chest somewhere lower than last time? And I don’t know whether it’s true, but every time it feels that way my head becomes surrounded by a big astronaut helmet full of toxic smoke. I’m sure it’s true. The evidence is in the weight-gain with binging-and-purging, so when people tell me I’m not fat, all I hear is their lies.

Only I can change, can make the change. The noise of my body hatred is full whack right now, and again becomes another big trigger for the binging and purging. So change feels next to impossible. Because this dull ache, this mental pain is constant, and the binging itself is the only thing that seems to give me that temporary high… of which is followed by panic of putting on weight and the added load of disgust. It’s a really bloody hard cycle to break.

At the moment I only choose to carry on living for my family and friends; I’ve seen the utter torture families’ of young suicides and deaths have had to go through just lately. And by imagining that being my family, as much as sometimes I don’t feel it would actually matter because all I do is create stress, worry, disappointment and everything else (so you start to rationalise that in the long-term they would be better off..) then I live for that 0.02% that is hope. Hope to change.

And I don’t just want to fucking exist. If I’m going to survive… I want to live my best fucking life.

There’s my conflict.

(picture of course taken with a Snapchat filter to cover the mongrel site I currently am)


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