...and I can't fucking swim....

A silence in shock.
Confusion.
This is why I don't like to feel.
Wanting. Scared. Vulnerable.
It opens you up to more than just that.
But to feeling everything.


I'm tired of being afraid.
I'm tired of not knowing how to handle emotions.
And I'm tired of how strongly they overwhelm me when they hit.




I'm never going to be suitable to inflict myself on someone. All I can think is "Why would I be like that? Why would I make someone handle all my baggage?"
I really have achieved what my username set me out to be when I started this blog.

I am a Pretty Wreck.

I am PrettyWreck.

I am not Z. I am not my names. I am not any of them but this Pretty Wreck inside of me. I have become a beast outside of my flesh, eaten alive by own my own hunger and constant satiety of it, haunted by my memories and fears and the remnants of the abuse that i have been through.
A cold and numb creature, jumping from addiction to addiction, desperately craving the strength of someone else to wrap their arms around me for a minute and let me know that it's okay...dear god, it's okay, I'm not alone anymore. But there's no one here to hug me when I need it. No one I can go to but my own hard bed--the concrete futon with a faux foam topper, and stuffed animals I've had for nearly ten years, and clutch them and cry. I can imagine what it would be like to have someone else be strong for me for a little bit, but I don't even have friends who's shoulders I can lean on.
I've distanced myself from even then.


I'm isolated.
And when I need a hug--when I need to know I'm not alone--I don't know where to go.
Nobody feels right.
The ones who I could turn to, I don't think will ever understand the gravity of the situation. Others I don't think I could stand for them to see it.


I feel like such a contradiction of emotions.
A contradiction of self definitions.
How is it that I've lost all this weight, but hate myself more than ever now?
I hear all the time that I don't see how hot I am. That I don't know that I'm a ten, or whatever.
But what they don't know is that it's a mask.
I wear my pain well. I wear my slowly approaching death like a second skin, draped like a burial shroud of the finest silk about my being. A slow and steady charming grin that has all the depth and warmth of a funerary mist. I am the seductive dying whisper of a woman--a bare remnant of what I once was--a mockery of what I could have been. A laughing phantom who's mirth quickly turns to screams as the dawn begins to burn away the last of their remains...

...I see the demon that lies beneath. The decay.
My body is still heavy.
I am still overweight.
I still have so much fat.
And it's surprising I can feel this full when inside, I'm so fucking empty.



It's not just the eating disorder.
No.
Ana has showed me more than that.
It was never the eating disorder that did this to me, but on the contrary, it was me. It is more than jsut food intake, but my past. It is not my relationship with the edible, but the existential. The eternal. But more than that, the internal. The history that dogs my steps. The memories that leave me shaking in revulsion at the thoughts of being touched. The actions that have left me cold and numb and feeling like I'm never damaged enough to seek out help, and the same insecurities that, when I do, make it easy to look me over because I laugh it off so well.
Behind this grin I'm sobbing.
Can't you see?
I never learned to swim.
I'm not fucking waving out here in the sea.
I'm drowning.




Watch.
Me.
Sink.