I dont have a tragic yet beautiful story. I’m not getting better, or overcoming hardships, or staying strong.
My parents are sober and still in love. I have a big house and plenty of stuff to fill the spaces.
I’ve never been completely isolated and alone. My heart has never been broken.
I don’t cut, drink, smoke, sleep away the pain.
But.
Every bit of food or nonwater drink I put past my lips and swallow is regretted and when I don’t eat—I am damn proud, happy in acomplishment.
If I wasn’t such a sucker for guilt, I’d hate my mom. When she says, “I love you,” I want to punch the walls in.
Honestly, I like feeling danger. I chase trouble and go heels over head for an asshole just because I enjoy the unexpected.
With unconditional digust, I loathe my body. Sometimes my frame seems too big, corners unfilled. I will never ever believe anyone when they tell me I’m better than ugly. I see myself as atrocious at best. Compliments piss me off, I’m not an attention seeker.