Recover, Relapse, Rewind

You might have an eating disorder if you think to yourself, "How much weight could I lose before the NEDA walk?"

Despite my best efforts, I'm still alive. You'd think that after three attempts, I'd have gotten suicide right. I'll add it to my long list of failures. Tonight is a night that I long to get it right. To take one final breath and be done with it all. I'm not sure I want to die. I'm just running out of reasons to live. Therapy doesn't work for me. Medication continues to fail me. The doctors refuse to admit that I'm hopeless, even though we all know it to be true. I'm lying on my bathroom floor, trying to remember why razors are bad. I don't want to wear long sleeves all the time, but I'm beginning to think that it's worth it. To tear open my skin once, then once more, until I can finally breathe again. Everyone says, "I understand," but only because that's what they're supposed to say. They don't understand. They never will. I'll die alone; that's just the way it is. They tell me that suicide is not an option. What they don't understand is that if someone is considering suicide, life is already killing them slowly. Begging them to stay is pleading for them to endure that pain for the benefit of their loved ones. People will tell you that suicide is selfish, but maybe talking someone out of suicide is selfish. Taking your own life is a final act of desperation...a red, flashing exit sign. It's a leap into the unknown, with the desperate hope that it's better than what you're leaving behind.

I've been freaking out about how even if I get thin again, I have self-harm scars and stretch marks all over my body that weren't there when I was at my lowest weight. That said, I just realized that I can just cover them with more tattoos. Life changer right there.

I do have a personal trainer. Her name is Ana.