I am not your fucking cautionary tale....

Let's get something clear.
I am no god damned cautionary tale.

I posed a question to myself, when I thought about the fact that the symptoms I had mere weeks ago, I realized, were all those of a heart attack brought about by lack of food and overdose of stimulants.
The aching jaw, the pain in the sternum and gut, the dizziness and shortness of breath...
...I looked in the mirror at my fat, flotsam like body, and demanded, "Would you rather be alive or thin? Do you want to live? Or do you want to be thin?"


....and the answer was so fucking obvious.
There is no life without thinness.
There is no purpose without perfection.

I am fat.
I am a fucking whale.
And I take no pride on my obesity. My waist is almost back up to 26 inches, my arms jiggle, my stomach is bloated, and I've exceeded 3500 calories a day for three days.
I am a shame to my own eating disorder.
But I am not a shame to myself.
I am no cautionary tale.
I am no promotion of this disease.
I am me.
I binge and purge, starve and eat like the most extreme of seasons.
I get excited at the thought that I might be dying.
I take stimulants enough to kill most folk, and relish in the realization that I'm fading.
Not because of any sort of ideals of divinity, but I am simply that fucking depressed and not able to carry through on my desire to just straight out off myself.
I'm not worthy of suicide.
I'm not thin enough yet.

I can't give up yet, because I'm not worthy of death.
Death is the reward, and to die before I have fully decayed would be to fail.



You see, we all die at some point.
And I'm going to die in pursuit of what I love.
Perfection.



I will never leave this behind.
I don't ever want to recover.
I'm angry and hateful at me, and I've realized I've been this way since I was a little kid. No therapy nor pharmaceuticals have ever helped. The only thing that helps is the driven, pointed thinking of this disorder, and the rage and sense of purpose against myself that it gives me.

I will achieve my goals of perfection.
And I am going to die in the process.

When it happens, don't take me as a story of why it shouldn't be done. Don't use me for your stupid inspiration for recovery or relapse.
I'm not your tool. I'm not here to move you. To change you.
I'm not here to shatter your life or help you rebuild it.
Let me be just me.
Take just me.
What I am.
A self destructive little know it all with an outward superiority complex, rage issues, and no self esteem.
A girl with no acceptance of herself who loves the feel of petting the flap at the back of her throat to bring up bite by bite what she eats.
An insomniac who hurts herself when she sleeps.
A rage filled being often too tired to move, but too hyped up on stimulants and amphetamine to sleep.

A person.
Burning.
Dying.
Laughing and crying and screaming the whole time.

Andorgynous internally and outwardly feminine.

I am the Moth plummeting into the lanterns flame.
Cackling as I sizzle and pop.

Watch.
Me.
Go.