Today I am fat. I’ve been craving biscuits a stupid amount the last few days, and I’ve just been giving into temptation. But I haven’t put on a silly amount of weight, because I’m 134lbs, and taking three times the recommended dose of laxatives pretty much daily.

So today I fix the damage, because I’m supposed to be 132lbs by now. Today I’m on ABC, and here’s how it’s going to be: I can do any day quota I like. E.g. If it’s supposed to be a 500 day, but I eat 800 calories, I remove the 800 calorie day and replace it with a fast. D’you get what I mean?

I’m fat and hairy, tralalala. 

Yesterday I watched Prince’s memorial video over and over again and I cried. Today is 6 months since he passed away, and I’m finally going to see him. I’ve got my sister’s oyster card, and time off from college. But I’m still afraid. I’m so afraid, that sometimes if I think about it too hard, I close my eyes so tightly that everything goes white. I’m so afraid that I’ve been biting my lip every time I think about it, and I think it’s going to start bleeding soon.

I feel like a little girl again, and I’m not so sure I like it. I remember wishing over and over again, even recently, that I could be young again – because everything was so much easier. But it wasn’t was it? Because even though the innocence swamps you, the tide of helplessness drowns you. It doesn’t matter what happens, or how you feel about it, because you can’t do anything about it. 

When I was nine years old, I used to pull my hair out in massive clumps to make it feel better. Clumps as big as my fingers today. I’d end up with massive bald patches. I told everyone it was because I had an allergic reaction to head lice shampoo that my mum put in my hair, and everyone believed me. All the teachers, all the parents, and all the doctors. Even the doctors at the hospital believed me, even when there was no evidence to suggest I was allergic to anything, they still believed me. Maybe they just didn’t want to think about a nine year old girl pulling her hair out.

I pulled my hair out up until I was around 13 years old. I’m not sure what stopped me, but something did. Maybe I was just tired of having to have my hair up in a ponytail all the time, or combing my hair over to the side so that I could hide it. I soon found out that if I scratched myself hard enough, I could feel the same pain that I did when I pulled my hair out – but scratching with my hands ended up becoming broken metal hangers, and blood everywhere, and excuses about guinea pigs needing their nails trimmed.

I’m still a little girl. I still make mistakes, and I still wish every night that maybe (just maybe) things will change soon. That tomorrow morning, I’ll either wake up happy or not wake up at all. But now I’m just a little girl in a big girl’s body, and I’m not allowed to make mistakes anymore. I’m not allowed to feel upset or do silly things, because I’m a big girl now. And I hate it.

Rest in peace Prince, and I’m sorry you got lumped with me as a friend. You didn’t know everything before, but you do now. I wonder if things would have been different if you knew.

Hazel.