If only I could spew it out of me in one long projectile stream of self hatred.

And what triggered this beautiful nod towards all things grotesque? What caused the bile-like hatred to begin to burn? A dream. A fucking dream where I watched myself on a stupid home movie behaving in the obnoxious manner that I naturally adopted as the eldest child of three.

It wasn’t like I even really THOUGHT about it.

By midday, I was making sef deprecating remarks and wincing at the contradictions.

By about 6 I was seething. Wanting and needing some kind of punishment.

By tonight I was desperate to shred my skin. To use a wood plane from my toes to my shoulders. From the inside of my ankle to my crotch.

Yes. Messed up. I don’t profess to be anything else right now.

There is not a single shadow of a soul I can speak this hatred to.

Not a person on earth who knows how much I hate that little girl who I was.

I am burning up in the flames of my own hatred.

I feel very alone and very, very frightened.

Somewhere, somehow, lies something that feels very, very dangerous.

It’s my fault.

My sister is my fault.

But perhaps I am angry enough with her to not really care.

I don’t know.

I already have a blog but when I began blogging I didn’t realise that there was this whole… blogging community thing. I didn’t realise that it was quite so… how can I put it…? Relational?

I began because I like the idea of my words being ‘out there’ so I’m not completely alone and there is the (ever so slim) chance of being heard. It wouldn’t be too far beyond the realms of possibility.

What I didn’t expect was for my blog to become a place where, much like my 3D world, I feel constrained by a fear of humiliation, of my inner world being shown and known, of my damage being explicit.

I can’t be honest there for the fear.
I can’t be as real as I want to be.

So.

A blog behind the mask of a blog behind the mask.
This could get complicated.

In a few, succinct, choice words, I am screwed.

I have an online friend who is also a therapist.

Tonight I feel like I could murder him and me and anyone on the path i took to get to him… and given that it is several hundred miles, that would be quite a few people.

I started a blog because I WAS sharing on an online forum but I felt too hemmed in and too heard and too vulnerable so I started a blog. now the same thing has happened.
A pattern I believe.

I have a problem with eating and tonight, due to the fact my throat is so raw it feels as though it is bleeding, I couldn’t work out at the gym.
I have eaten without working out, which has left me feeling desperately out of control.

I self harm and the desire to do so following the emptiness of tonight’s online conversation where I couldn’t communicate the anger I felt, is almost overwhelming.
I have been battling fantasies since the last episode of cutting a couple of weeks ago.
As the desire deepens, so do the wounds.
Nothing feels deep enough.
In my head I see gashes on my legs like wide, yawning mouths.
I sound like a psycho but you’ll just have to take my word or it that I’m the smiley girl you pass on the way to work. I’m your kid’s favourite teacher. I’m the one who you come to when you need someone to listen and understand. I’m the one who you can count on to write a list of your problems and work out how you can tackle them in a way that feels manageable and is realistic.

Tonight I am overwhelmed by a hatred so intense that I feel ashamed of it.

I want to rip my head off and kick it into the outer hemisphere.
I want to carve a chessboard on my torso.
I want to smash my face until the surface is a red and black pulp.

I feel as though I have no control over my body, my weight, my size.

I’m angry.
Angry that I have had to come here instead of my usual blog.
Irrationally angry at others who comment. Angry that I care. Angry that I fear their judgment.

I want to be heard but i don’t want to be known.

I am selfish. I am self absorbed. I am pathetically depressed.
If you think that you can barely stand to hear the level of self pity you hear in this, then you are listening well.
I’ve read the books, I know the theory.
It’s my choice to feel this. My choice to starve. my choice to self harm. My choice to be miserable. my choice to be angry. My choice to have panic attacks. My choice to suffer in silence. my choice. My responsibility.
I’m hot on responsibility.

Respond with disgust, anger, sarcasm, care.
It means nothing.
I am quite untouchable here. I choose to be.

I’m at my worst and it’s a hell of an ugly sight.
I’m glad I have shown it.