Text message to father.

You're a lying bastard and I hate you when you're like this. When are you just going to grow up and realise that not only are you not some sort of gangster, but you need to stop snorting drugs and be a fucking dad again. This means spending time with us, not money on us.

Consider this me telling you that I never want any contact with you again. I want a dad, not a smackhead.

Oh my. I wonder what he'll think of that. He'll either be angry and come and beat the shit out of me, attempt to get sober, or be so coked up that he won't give a flying fuck that his daughter just swore at him repeatedly.

12 days. Big fucking woop.

I don't feel any better, I feel worse. I cry, I scream. I get piercings instead of hurting myself.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself goddamn it, there are people out there worse off than you Hazel.

Sorry.

I can't read your blogs, I can't comment. I have no energy or strength to do anything. I don't leave my house. I may be kicked out of college. My ex boyfriend doesn't want me anymore. There were maggots in my guinea pig cage.

I'll come back to blogger when I can think.

New Cycle.

I ate less that 500 calories today. Then my mother ordered chinese and expected me to eat. I ate about 700 calories and I'm guessing that that's more than I was expected to.

I went upstairs, I threw up about 1/3 of it, then I took 12 laxatives. I know this is going to become my new cycle, and I hate it. My nose won't stop running, my eyes are red, my throat is so sore because I can't stop coughing.

But I have to do this.

Purge.

Back down to 135lbs, following an epic binge and purge session. Throwing up when ketchup was involved in your binge is always a scary thing to do, eh? I guess I'm just going to have to deal with my bmi being 19.2 for today.

I  don't want to throw up. I hate the realisation that, once it's happened, I may just have to carry on. I hate knowing that each time I put my fingers down to the back of my throat, they come up dirtier, and the toilet bowl becomes fuller. Most of all, I hate being weak about it all.

I wasn't going to throw up. I was binging, and I was just going to take laxatives. But then my dad's friend came over and started talking to my mum about my dad's drug abuse. Then something just clicked. I'm sat here eating my troubles away, when it's my dad that needs saving, and my mum and sister that need help. So I threw what was left away, and I went upstairs and purged until I was sure there was nothing left.

Maybe if I get thin enough, just like last time, but even smaller, my mum and dad will be parents again. Because if I get sick enough, my dad will stop doing drugs.

Bench?

I spent Tuesday night sleeping on a bench outside my college. Interesting eh? I couldn't stay at home, I just couldn't. Then at 5am my ex boyfriend called me, told me to go there and I could sleep and shower. I did precisely that, sort of.

I got to his house, pushed past him, said hi to his dad then collapsed into the bed and slept. Lol, he had to move me out of the way so that he could get to sleep. When I woke up, we were spooning - I turned around and got beautiful kiss (: It was lovely. Only it didn't really stop there. We ended up having sex, then falling asleep, then having sex again.

Fuck my life? Well then I stole his shower, we went to college (late), where I proceeded to once again fall asleep in the back room of the common room. I went to fuck all lessons, then I went to work two jobs. Fun times.

And I am 136lbs. This disgusting cycle of binge, laxatives, shit, binge, laxatives, shit is horrible. I hate it. I've been feeling so wound up by anything, everything. I snuck out the house because of this whole thing to do with my dad and a fucking park bench is my saviour. I also punched a wall yesterday and left a lovely big hole in it. Epic.

So right now, life isn't an option. Understand?

Daddy.

Hello daddy. I don't think you want me anymore do you? No. You don't want me, and I must have been really bad because you've been sniffing drugs again. You don't have to lie to me, and you don't have to hide.

Just tell me that you're alive please. Because I don't know otherwise.

Nom.

I eat the cheescake you left downstairs, it was me that finished the flake. You bought me food after work, even though a mate had just given me a smartie cookie. Every time you give me food, I spiral out of control. Thankyou mother, thankyou very much.

It has come to my attention that my last post was kinda deep. I just re-read it and realised that I did the three voices, and I've never really acknowledged them like that before. It's odd. At least it was poemy and floaty.

My friend Ronald discovered my tumblr and is worried about his Zelh ): That makes me sad, because more and more people are seeming to find out. It's not that I can't hide it, it's that I'm making them sad. People shouldn't be sad because of me - the precise thing I'm doing is taking things out on myself, so that I don't make them sad. This is all wrong.

I'm 136lbs and bleeding. I want to be the 127lb 5"10 me again. That was fun. I'm fasting, as of now.

How admirable you are, to stop eating baby food and start fasting right away. How strong you are, getting through 36hours of starvation, hunger, near fainting – yet still having the power to starve on. I’m proud of you my dear.

Go outside for a cigarette during college break-time, oh you’re doing oh so well – though this depression is full on, and you even detest being outside for this small period of time. You don’t want to go to English with Mr. M, because he always makes you feel tired and stupid. When offered weed you happily oblige – you shan’t be missed in English. You didn’t leave your house for two weeks straight, prior to this. Remember?

Something is odd about this ben, it’s making you feel sick. Perhaps it’s because you haven’t eaten.

Go and eat, it’ll be absolutely fine. Your body needs food remember, and a few pastries won’t hurt. You’ve earned these, with all your hard work – you deserve them. Even if it’s only a bite, see how good it is? Yes, now eat more, you’ve started eating now. You aren’t allowed to stop.

Eat a pastry and a patty, have two Kit Kat chunkies. That’s it. Now start walking, keep calm and soldier on. Fuck, you’re going blind. You cannot see a thing and everything is replaced with bright white lights, there are no pictures in your eyes. You’re dizzy, and the ringing in your ears is explosive. Perhaps you smoked skunk – the chemicals are hurting.

Drag yourself inside you fat bitch, see what you’ve done to yourself? You’re being punished for not eating; I’m doing this to you. You’ve ruined all of this hard work you’ve done, and you’re going to come crying back to back as soon as these poisons leave your brain. You’re supposed to be pure; you’re supposed to be striving toward perfection. Fat bitch.

Stumble into the common room - root around your bag for your phone. This is the same phone which you will leave in the toilet later on, having had your body reject the food you’ve given it in the most violent downheaval known to mankind. Text your boss from the pet shop, tell him you have the 24hour flu and you’ll make up the hours tomorrow. Note to self: find two extra hours for the pet shop tomorrow, amongst college, homework, and tutoring children at 4pm. The boss Okays this, and you slink back into your chair.

It is lunch time; you go out still blind – though it is periodical blindness now. You’re empty, so disgusting empty that you have to fill it, have to stop the pain. It is not emptiness in your stomach, but emptiness within, and you have to make it better. So you eat, and eat, and eat. Another patty and half of a pastry. Then you go to your lesson, having smoked a cigarette, and you proceed to collapse into your chair.

You go to work and tutor children, whilst still battling the effects of the mind numbing animal – you must not let the children understand that you are like this, and you must not rob their innocence. A boy throws a tantrum at you; he doesn’t want to do his English programme today. You’re stupid for covering this shift. You can’t handle it, can you?

Walk to the bus stop at the end of your shift, need a cigarette. Fuck, your ex boyfriend has your lighter at the moment. He’s a story of his own. Bum a lighter from the strange chav-girl, who you soon realise has no bum whatsoever, or breasts. She only has the untoned curve of her stomach. Even in this state, you think, even in this state I know I’m smaller than her. Since when has this become competition?

Get onto the bus for free, lie to the driver and say your oyster card has been stolen. The nice driver lets you on. Sit at the back, try to read the book your coursework will be based upon for English – your comparative essay will be between the Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and Wasted by Marya Hornbacher. You start to feel sick, queasy. Disgusting. Call mother, tell her how you feel – listen to her dismiss it. If only she knew. Get off the bus, stumble into a pub and ask to use their toilet – your body rejects yet more food, and you remove your tampon. You don’t remember having eaten this much – it was only three and a half pastries.

Start to walk home you fat child, you deserve all of this pain you are in now. You think you can just ruin everything with a drug fuelled binge? No, you cannot. I have worked too hard to let you do this. You have yet shorter hair which I inspired you to get, you cannot hide your fat face anymore so you must deal with it.

Get home and realise that you have forgotten your keys – it is okay because you call your mother and she has just pulled up outside the house in the car. You call that car Ralph. She lets you in and then she leaves to pick up your sister from her gymnastics class.

Your sister was home earlier, she made some chips. She seems to have left you some; it would be rude not to eat them. There’s chilli sauce in the fridge too, have them with that. You eat chips until they are all gone. Spy the fridge my dear, I think there’s a packet of chocolate animals in there – you saved them especially, remember? You’re not feeling too well so you should eat them now. That’s it, eat the biscuits. Finish the biscuits and crumple the packaging, I think you should start on the avocado now; you cut open the avocado to discover that it is black on the inside. That doesn’t matter; you cover it in salt and eat in anyway. But it doesn’t fill up the hole, nothing does. Your mother has brought you back chicken wings and chips, freshly barbequed – she’d be disappointed if you didn’t eat them. You eat bowl after bowl of chips, ignoring your stomach. Yes darling, I know you’re full, but you see – you’re still empty. Have a few chicken wings too, at least then you’ll be satisfying your mother. You’ll feel better once she’s happy.

Fucking fat cow, what have you done!? Look at this mess of a pregnant stomach! Get up I SAID GET UP NOW. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH, AFTER ALL I’VE DONE FOR YOU. YOU AREN’T TO EAT ANYMORE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? I SAID DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND, YOU FAT CUNT?

She is angry at you, all of them are; one because you ate so much, the other because you’ve stopped eating, and yourself because you don’t control any of it anymore. You crawl towards the clothes which you are supposed to have folded – you cannot stand up. You take what you can and go up the stairs on your hands and knees, undress yourself and crawl into bed.

You won’t make yourself throw up tonight, you have to fix this. You’re supposed to be the strong one, remember?