Bottled Up

I self harmed last night, and would you like to know what the trigger was? I watched Eastenders. Yes, fucking Eastenders made me upset. The scene of Bradley's funeral came on, and in an instant I was back at the church on November 30th saying goodbye to Prince. I still can't get rid of the memory of his face staring back at me from the coffin. I still remember reaching out to touch him, and completely breaking down. I still remember having to hold it all in, and help Steve make his way around the church and back to his seat. Steve was falling to pieces. I was falling apart. I had to help Steve, I had to bottle it up. And now it's coming out thick and fast and I can't control it.

I weighed myself this morning. 134lbs. I remember just a few short weeks ago being able to weigh myself at night on a bad day, and not seeing a number any bigger than 133lbs. It's not even about fixing things anymore, I just have to get my control back. I've decided on my new rules - if it isn't a fruit, vegetable, or below 75 calories, it's not staying in my system. I'm desperate, and I don't know what to do about it. Even now I'm not particularly thinking, I'm just letting my fingers go across the keyboard, staring at them in a numb haze.

Last night I tried not to cry in front of my mum as we watched Eastenders. When it finished I ran into the kitchen, let out a few silent tears, pulled it together then went upstairs. I went into the bathroom, I caught sight of myself - tears streaming down my face, eyeliner having turned into a black smudge across my face. My "filled out" face. It's all true. I tried not to scream at myself as I stared at the scales and started to take my clothes off. The only noise I couldn't supress was a breathy scream, quiet. Like a rush of waves. That low, screech of everything I'd tried to keep in escaping. Getting on to the scales and trying to stop crying, seeing the numbers and feeling like I'd had the breath knocked out of me. Running to my room and breaking a hanger. Drawing it over my skin again and again. Screaming at a God I don't believe in, asking him why I couldn't cut deep enough, couldn't be thin enough. Asking him why I'm not allowed to be happy enough. Cutting more, deeper. Falling asleep finally.

I woke up this morning and looked at my wrist, I didn't cut very deep, it just looks sore with a few angry red lines criss crossing it. Went downstairs, had a breakfast of cucumber and 1 raw mushroom. Went back upstairs. Mum came up, found a broken hanger. She asked me why she was always finding broken hangers in my room. I could only stare at her, dumbfounded. She knows. I told her a while before, she saw the scars a while before. She knows what the broken hangers mean. She just ignores them.

I'm supposed to be doing homework. I'm supposed to go to the gym today. I don't know what's going to happen though. I just feel dead.