Titles are for Whores

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I haven’t been doing too well to be honest. Depression has slapped me in face and has made even the simplest of tasks into a draining and painful event. I’d like to refer to this week as the purgeathon 2k14. It’s been really bad and my body is so angry at me that we are barely speaking. I’ve made it impossible for anyone to talk to me or for me to talk to them because my eating disorder has distorted my thoughts and made things that are a big deal into something I shake off but small, unimportant things I completely break down over. Nobody knows what to say if I am crying over the fear of my finger nails being fat so I don’t have to talk about it and nobody will keep pushing talking about how lonely I am or my dad if I shut it down. I’m isolating, I’m pulling a killer fake smile and it keeps the wall I built up pretty damn cemented.I hate mental illness.

I wish that this fuckery made sense because then I could talk about it or mutter another noise other than “i’m fine”. There is validity in sanity, sane people deserve to be heard because it isn’t all it their head. I can’t guarantee tomorrow and who knows, maybe I will wake up tomorrow with the strength to never purge or want to self harm again but I can tell you with a somewhat solid certainty that tomorrow my alarm will go off and I will wake up having to carry all this shit with me. And it’ll hurt. It’ll make me truly question if the world is a better place with me in it.

I’m not as pathetic as I sound, I pinky swear. If you met me you wouldn’t think “This girl is a walking cymbalta commercial”, I promise. I’m super cool, just ask all my friends from tinder. Ah, I’m fucking hilarious. I have delayed writing lately in hopes that I’ll have my Oprah “Aha!” moment would come and I could write something that would show off my strength or inner wisdom. At least something that would make my reader proud.

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