Do you know what it's like to wanna surrender?
I don't remember when I started to feel depressed. It's been going on as long as I can remember. I remember being about six years old, and falling into waves of depression frequently. It got a little better as I got older, but that's only because I was finding ways to get around it.
First, it was simple distractions. Feeling depressed, go watch a funny movie. Go be with your brother. Go out somewhere. Call a friend just to chat. But that got hard when I only had one friend...and she wasn't very emotionally connected to me. After a while, those little fixes didn't have much effect.
First, it was simple distractions. Feeling depressed, go watch a funny movie. Go be with your brother. Go out somewhere. Call a friend just to chat. But that got hard when I only had one friend...and she wasn't very emotionally connected to me. After a while, those little fixes didn't have much effect.
When I was somewhere between 6 and 9 years old (I can't remember...) I tried to kill myself. I held the knife, I did all that. But I wimped out. I told mom after that "sometimes I hate myself so much that I feel like killing myself." She didn't take me seriously.
When I was 13, I started to cut myself. It wasn't bad at first, not deep, just a blunt pair of scissors. Surface damage to the eyes, but nothing to leave a scar. I would do it when I was angry. Usually at my mom. I never let her see, nor did I want her to, but for some reason I felt like I was getting back at her by doing that to myself. A twisted way of thinking, because I was doing it because I was angry and felt like she didn't care, but at the same time I felt she did because I obviously thought it would bother her if I hurt myself.
When I was 13, I started to cut myself. It wasn't bad at first, not deep, just a blunt pair of scissors. Surface damage to the eyes, but nothing to leave a scar. I would do it when I was angry. Usually at my mom. I never let her see, nor did I want her to, but for some reason I felt like I was getting back at her by doing that to myself. A twisted way of thinking, because I was doing it because I was angry and felt like she didn't care, but at the same time I felt she did because I obviously thought it would bother her if I hurt myself.
I didn't realize until years later that the real reason I had kept on cutting for so long (on and off until the present) was because it made my waves of depression go away, or lessen. I hadn't made the connection, but that was why I did it. Because even tho I was angry at my mom, obviously it couldn't change anything, but it helped..SOMEHOW even though I didn't know how at the time.
I can't remember if it was shortly before or shortly after I turned 16 (I'm leaning more towards the before...), I became bulimic. That sounds really stupid. I don't know. I never put a label on myself, and whenever I heard the name, I didn't identify with it. But I guess that what it was.
After years of bingeing and finally it was taking its toll on my young body, I noticed. I was 130 lbs at one point. Not much, they tell me. But I could tell. I felt huge wherever I went. I was aware of every inch of my body. I looked in the mirror and hated everything I saw. I had problems with eating. Once I started, I didn't know how to stop. Didn't know when enough was enough. I'd eat til the food was gone. I felt like a fucking monster. No self control? Then I didn't deserve to keep that food in my body. It was poison inside of me. As soon as I'd finish binging, I'd fall into a pit of depression that only cutting could fix. But I could only cut so much before someone noticed.
I would purge. After every meal. Or every time I felt I ate too much (which was often). I hated it. I hated the way my head would hurt. The way my throat would clog up. The way my nose would run. The way my hands felt in my throat. The way the food tasted the second time over. I hated it all. But I had no other choice.
Only a few months after starting a cycle of binging and purging, I tried marijuana for the first time. It was a short stint. I didn't like it very much. It was more of a trigger for depression than a fix. Cigarettes helped, but not that much. It was more of an erasure than a fix.
I got found out for the cigarettes and the cutting and they came to a drastic halt. I was checked over every day for new cuts. I couldn't anymore. But I so longed for it. Since I was found out, my freedom was lost. I was trapped. I had no outlet. I listened to music, and it mostly kept me alive. That, and him.
A few months after that, the bulimia (?) hit an all time high. I must have lost 15 lbs or more. Possibly 20. It wasn't noticeable, as it was fall time so I was covered with baggy clothes most of the time. But every time someone noticed, it was euphoria. I had control over something. Finally, I had control. I couldn't control my depression, I couldn't control my life, my friends (not many left), or my parents, or my addictions, but I could control the way I looked.
But again, I hated it so much I had to stop. I tried another method. I started counting calories. I tried to eat less than 900 every day. Sometimes I would succeed and sometimes I wouldn't. I started going to the gym. Two times a week turned into three. And I'd try to starve, and fail often, which threw me even farther into depression. I didn't even have the control to stop eating? And I couldn't even cut anymore. I was trapped. I tried weight watchers, anything to cut my food intake. Finally I had control. I was losing weight. But it was never enough. 119 lbs used to make me so happy. It would get me through the day. Then 117 would do that. Then 115. But it kept getting lower until if I wasn't below 110 I felt like dying. I tried to eat less, work out more. I would be dizzy, close to passing out. I would strive for less than 500 calories a day. Cut when I ate too much. No one even fucking knew.
*edit: recent*
I got down to 105lbs. I was so proud of myself, and for once I was actually happy. I looked great, even to myself. I still wanted to lose more, I always would, but for now I could survive. I even stopped cutting. Then I started my first semester at county college, and working part time. I had so little time during the week that there was none left for working out, so that stopped. I began to eat more, because there was nothing healthy available and I was hungry, always. I quickly gained about 10 pounds. I HATED it. I hated myself. I started cutting again, more and more often. I would be trapped in long sleeves because I didn't want ANYONE to find out. I tried dieting, and always failed. I would go weeks and months without stepping on the scale because I was so afraid of what I would see. I could fit into zeros and double zeros, but I felt the pounds creep back onto my legs and stomach. I am out of control.
And still, no one knows.
*edit: recent*
I got down to 105lbs. I was so proud of myself, and for once I was actually happy. I looked great, even to myself. I still wanted to lose more, I always would, but for now I could survive. I even stopped cutting. Then I started my first semester at county college, and working part time. I had so little time during the week that there was none left for working out, so that stopped. I began to eat more, because there was nothing healthy available and I was hungry, always. I quickly gained about 10 pounds. I HATED it. I hated myself. I started cutting again, more and more often. I would be trapped in long sleeves because I didn't want ANYONE to find out. I tried dieting, and always failed. I would go weeks and months without stepping on the scale because I was so afraid of what I would see. I could fit into zeros and double zeros, but I felt the pounds creep back onto my legs and stomach. I am out of control.
And still, no one knows.
