Not for under 18s.
There’s nothing to write for it’s all just lies and more lies. I don’t know what’s reality and what’s not.
Right now I’m sitting on the floor leaning against my bed. I feel the floor. I feel the bed. I feel tears in my eyes. I see the screen. I hear a ticking of a timepiece. I hear some raindrops. I hear the washing machine and the dryer.
I haven’t packed. I’ve been staring at my phone knowing I’m alone and knowing I can’t reach out to anyone for if I do and don’t get a response I’ll completely spiral. My head is tilted to the side. My feet are a bit numb. I’m swallowing.
Not sure what tops to pack. It’s cold weather. I want it to be hot because wanted to wear whatever I wanted without the constraints that living at home, religion and Judaism place on me. I need space to explore, to be. I’m not going to get that space.
Holding a really cute superdry tshirt on my lap. It’s really too cold for it. I’m not sure whether to keep it as it’ll only fit me now whilst I’ve lost weight.
SM was in my house today. She told me I look like I’ve lost weight. Do I? I can’t see it. Some body parts I can feel my bones.
Changing position to be doing a full body squat. Haven’t done that for ages. Or any exercise at all.
I haven’t used enough. And I’ve taken too much.
My head is one of contradictions.
I’m trying to be aware of my body in my room.
I’m tired. I don’t want to say anything I think or feel because it registers to me as lies. And I can’t handle lies or incongruence at the moment. Maybe that’s also a lie… who knows.
Changed body squat position. Not sure which one is better. I still have a stomach. Like, really visible. Weird I guess how I’ve lost weight everywhere but there. It’s not about weight. Weight is just a bonus. Or is it? I rarely look in the mirror. I don’t believe I see in the mirror what others see when they look at me. So why would I look in the mirror? I don’t really ever think anything much of my body either way. I dislike the acne scars. When I look. When I don’t look I don’t see them. People talk about liking or disliking their bodies. My body is just my body. Nothing to like or dislike. Except when I want to destroy it, but then it’s not really my body I’m trying to destroy, but myself.
Why’m I in this space?
It doesn’t really help to write. Especially because I can’t connect to it so it’s not like writing is doing anything or processing anything. It’s just giving me something to do with time. Time that thing I don’t know what to do with. To do with myself. Also that thing I don’t know what to do with.
I guess disconnection is good. I don’t actually care if I’m dead or alive. Rather than wanting to be dead. I chose life. So not like would have done anything either way. That weird thing life.