I feel as though my heart is trying very hard to beat. I don’t know why, and I know that it actually isn’t, but it feels slower than usual and I can feel it more than usual. It’s funny because when I thought about that feeling, the lyric “I can hear your heartbeat, I tried to find the sound” rang into my ear because I am listening to Cosmic Love over and over again.
I can feel my heart beating in places where I usually have to go out of my way to touch, without having to touch. I can feel it at my throat, especially, which I suppose is normal for everyone because a vital artery runs through your throat. I don’t know. I don’t believe that this feeling could make sense to anyone other than myself. If you understand, well, kudos to you.
My cuts are infected, I think. I don’t know for sure, but I don’t suppose that scabs that have a tint of green are a good sign. I honestly don’t care, they shall heal eventually, if not by themselves then with the aid of Neosporin.
‘No dawn no day; I’m always in this twilight, in theshadow of your heart.’
I was silly and put a ‘bandage’ (a paper towel with a hair elastic and a rubber band to secure it) on my cuts, giving them basically no air to heal over and now my shirt has been sticking to it all day long, and despite my attempt to cleanse them, they’ve little hairs and pieces of lint stuck in them, and they’re not healing over and they’re not even bleeding but they’ve clear-ish liquid coming from them, making the cardigan that I’m wearing stick to them and I have to keep peeling it off every now and then and it’s disgusting, and this has been a very long sentence.
All I do is binge and purge, and I apparently haven’t been purging enough, which is expressed with my constantly bloated, fat stomach, and the fact that I’ve 1.4 lbs this week. This is honestly the most discouraging thing ever; trying and getting no result. I’d never gotten much result before but now it’s even worse because I’m incessantly gaining weight.
Today is the first of June, and I weigh an embarassing 90.2 lbs (40.91 kg).
I want to fucking die.
I’ve spent the past hour cutting and patting my cuts with paper towel. They haven’t stopped bleeding, so I’ve made this bandage out of paper towel, a hair elastic, and a rubber band. I’m now laying in warm bed sheets that I took from the dryer about twenty minutes ago and I’ve been thinking very much of overdosing. I want so badly to do it but I happen to be a person with terrible luck, and so I’d most likely being unlucky enough to live through it and then have something wrong with me, or something along the lines of that. If I ever kill myself I also would like to leave a note that explains.. explains everything I suppose, because no one really knows anything about me. Not my family, not anyone else, because no one has ever cared to know. No one is ever going to care. But anyway, I haven’t written a note and by the time that I do, I’ll probably be back to not feeling as numb (“numb” is quite an overused word, but that’s the only way I can think to explain it) as I do at the moment. Now I can here a bug’s wings fluttering as it flies, and it’s probably going to dart at my phone because of the light the screen’s giving off, I’m so tired of the bugs and summer still has yet to begin. It’s really a task to try to sleep when I’m discomforted by cuts and when I’ve such thoughts on my mind, but I’m going to indulge myself with Patrick Wolf’s music, and then I suppose I’ll try sleeping.
Today I cut, after not cutting for lord knows how long. I can’t remember the last time I cut (it must have been at least two weeks ago, not more than a month, which I’m positive of, as I remember cutting the night before my birthday), but I’d ceased to do it for enough time that all but one of my scars have healed over. Some scars are fading while others remain, and meanwhile, I’m creating new ones. I would apologize, but I haven’t let anyone down.
The usual also occurred; a binge occurred. I had to wait for at least a half hour before I could purge because the largest spider I have ever laid eyes on decided to take residence in the bathroom by the toilet, and so I paced, begging my sister to capture or kill it, of which she did none, she ignored me because she loves to see me struggle.
After pacing more, practically in tears over the thought of not being able to purge, I sprayed the spider with hair spray repeatedly until I finally gathered the courage to vacuum it up. Finally able to partially release myself of my stomach’s bloated-ness and pain, I was able to purge. I feel as though my strength and air have been robbed from me, now (My air, most likely because of the humid weather). That’s what purging does; it robs you. Robs you of your strength, diligence, coordination. I’d thought that I were a pig before I started purging, but I’ve only grown into more of one over the months.
Areas of my stomach and arm are marked with wounds. Tincy, tiny wounds. The first thing that I’m going to do once I’ve my driver’s license (which should, if all goes as planned, be by the first of July,) is drive to a hardware store and purchase myself a nice gift: new razor blades.
