Sinking to the depths again
the ones you never quite reach
heart in my hands and head on the floor
wishing I was anyone but me.
Falling for my weakness again
and welcoming it like a friend
crushing my heart between my fingers
– that heart you tried to mend.
Sad, tired eyes searching for you
but my hands can’t seem to grip
aching head and swollen fingers
and the shame because I slipped.
sick in my skin and dead to the world
it’s cold on the bathroom floor
smash all the mirrors and hide the pieces
I don’t want them anymore.
Bulimia, unlike many of the things I’ve experienced, is strangely easy to write about. The reason for this is most likely because when I think of myself as being “bulimic”, it’s like stepping into somebody else and watching myself from the outside; almost like a movie. It isn’t real. Even after fifteen years of binging and purging, something inside me still refuses to accept that I could possibly have an eating disorder.
ED’s happen to other people, you see. Not me. I simply… have a little trouble with food. Since I first made myself sick at eleven years old it’s all been a sort of blur to me. I know it happened, but it may as well be somebody else’s story because I can’t ever quite accept it’s not all a big lie I concocted to get attention.