Sometimes, you don’t turn into a delicate pale waif with blue veins exposed beneath your paper skin
Sometimes, your eyes turn yellow and your blood vessels break around your lashes
and it hurts
your cheeks puff up full of water
And you become a swollen head with brittle hair and cracking skin
it’s not pretty
It’s sad
And it’s scary
You might not even be thin at all, you might still be fat

When you’re alone, you might spend twenty minutes staring at a cup of fruit
Before deciding not to eat it
When someone asks you to get sandwiches
You will snap at them and say, “I cant eat that”
And they won’t understand
They will move on
Then you’ll go back home and crawl in bed at 3pm
And sob because you’re afraid of everything
And you can’t remember a time when living wasn’t so heavy
And there’s no one you can tell
You will fall asleep and it will feel bad and stale waking up in the dark
In the yellow light of your studying roommate
And you’ll wish you could sleep more
Eventually you’ll lose interest in everything
Your batteries will run dry and it will all stop inching forward
You’ll give up what you love and scream and beat against your thighs until
They bruise
It will hurt
And it will be scary

You will lay in bed with rotting food on your night stand
And unwashed clothes on your floor
You will watch bad television and ignore your dog
And sleep through every sunrise
And sunset
And you’ll forget how it feels to laugh or
Be touched

You’ll try to read but you’ll hardly read
Maybe you’ll cut up your arm in frustration one day
And it’ll bleed through your sleeve
And your mother will see and she won’t hug you
She’ll scream
And call you crazy
Or disturbed
you will feel more alone and worse
your arm will be a mess
people will stare
Even years later when things are different
People will stare at those fucking scars
And then look for something in your eyes
It’ll scare them
But it won’t intimidate them

Your father might try to pull you out of bed
And grab your foot and rip you to the floor
And you will silently protest until he quits
And slams your door shut, then kicks it once or twice
And you will feel numb and your hair will mat against your pillow
It will take you a month to notice and
you’ll have to cut it all off.

Things will get worse. And you will lose a lot of things that used to matter.
You might go to the hospital and it will likely be unpleasant.

You won’t curl up in a pretty ball with white sheets
Your soul-mates won’t be the dizzy people
Wandering the halls of the psych unit
They will be strange and broken and mentally ill,
With nervous ticks like blinking a thousand times while tilting their head
It will look like a seizure
And it won’t be poetic
It will be scary

They will be divorcees and old men
Or a pregnant teenager with facial piercings being escorted by the police
Or traumatized women who will sob in the hallway
Clutching their hospital gowns
While a bored woman with ugly scrubs absently takes their blood pressure
The workers will be insensitive
You will be afraid to shower and your assigned psychiatrist
Will put you on too many meds
And pretend to understand your life
She will laugh too much and ask you impatient questions

You will have trouble sleeping
And you will also never want to leave your bed
The meds will give you a bloody nose in the middle of the night
And it will stain your sheets
And the sheets will stay bloody
And when your brother visits you
And your sheets are sunken and dirty and spotted with blood
It will upset him and he’ll pull them off

You’ll feel numb and catatonic
Because you are on
Five different kinds of meds
All at once, twice a day
So you will become a dizzy person wandering the halls

You’ll wear the clothes your parents bring you in blue gym bag
They will be plain
And from target
When the nurse begs you to take a shower
You will try
And forget to wash your hair and your hands will shake
As you turn off the water
You will worry you did something wrong and feel guilty

You might think nonsensical things
but the only rabbit hole you’ll be led down
Will be the miserable pit of the mental health industry
And your own self destruction
You won’t wear a blue dress like Alice and your confusion won’t be cute

Maybe you will be afraid to go to the bathroom
So you’ll wet the bed when you can’t hold it anymore
And damage you urethra after a month
Maybe you’ll be scared to eat
Or drink
Because you are worried its all poison
So you’ll poison yourself
With dehydration headaches
and disorientation from hunger
And when you finally do eat
You’ll binge and gain twenty pounds
In a month

There might be a forty year old man who talks to you too much
And he will tell you the story of his wife
Who killed herself
He will say ‘she had four daughters’
But could never take care of herself
And you will internalize those words
And see yourself in this woman
And it will scare you

None of your friends will visit, except for one
You hadn’t seen in two years
And she’ll bring you cards and it will make you feel
And you’ll worry the bed smells and you won’t know what to say
And you won’t see her again after
You’ll lose a lot of friends and it won’t be cool
They will move on
And you won’t
They’ll treat you like glass but they won’t mention
Even though you all know why

And part of you will wonder
If things would have been different
Had you not started a war
With your body
And your mind
But the best you can do
Is surrender
lick your wounds,
and give the casualties nice gravestones

try to remind yourself
You didn’t ask for this
And tell anyone who does,
tell anyone who thinks it’s beautiful
To starve or slice or cry or detach from the mind
That it hurts like hell
And it fucks up your life

Romanticizing Eating Disorders and Mental Illness, and the truth


(via mosaic-skin)

Before the World Intruded

Return me to those infant years,
before I woke from sleep,

when ideas were oceans crashing,
my dreams blank shores of sand.

Transport me fast to who I was
when breath was fresh as sight,

my new parts — unfragmented —
shielded faith from unkind light.

Draw for me a figure whole, so different
from who I am. Show me now

this picture: who I was
when I began.

Michele Rosenthal

Sometimes I Wonder…

Sometimes I wonder if ill make it out alive
If I’ll live another day, if ill graduate on time.
I feel nothing but inadequacy when I’m usually so confident
I don’t know what’s happened
Me, I don’t know what’s wrong with it

A chill of depression creeps down my spine
When this happens I am anything but fine
I try and I try again and again
I thought I beat it, will it ever let me win?
But go on I must as it is the only way
Nothing to do but keep my chin up and live another day