I think what I want most in my life is to not go to bed afraid .. To not stop the television, the music, to hear those footsteps coming down the hall. I don’t want to have to lock the door to protect me from what lives inside my house, instead of what is outside. But here I am, and I am afraid.

I can’t tell you when it happened, but I have changed. Somewhere inside of me I have found my worth as a person and a woman. I am aware of inequality and I know what is right and wrong, and you are wrong. I respect myself and I respect my fellow women, too much, to let even you demoralize us anymore.

You do not raise your hand in my direction and you do not threaten your wife. As I sit here, I wait in vain for a knock on my door, an apology. It seems that it is not wrong in your eyes, domestic violence, pushing, shoving, punching your daughter and wife. I stand up for my mother and you look at her as if to say, “This is how your daughter talks to me.” I am not afraid anymore, Dad.

You tell me I have a chip on my shoulder. That chip is called self respect. If standing up against domestic violence is a chip on my shoulder, you are not the man I thought you had become. It’s still fine to call your loved ones horrible names, push them around, because they need to learn their lesson, right? The best part of all of this is that both of your sons had inherited this temper of yours, are you proud?

I would love to try to make you understand, maybe tell you that this could be my husband one day. At this point you’d probably laugh and say, “Good.”




Open Letter To My Dad

I can’t sleep … Once again. And instead of texting you and receiving an angry, irrational reply, I will write you a letter that you will never get.

I am awake, in more ways than one. Little girls grow up thinking their dad is their hero, but I guess, that’s my point … They grow up. I believe most girls grow up to marry a man like their father, whether that is a good or bad thing, I suppose it depends on the individual, but I am here thinking of how fortunate I am, or was.

I am fortunate because he is not like you – Within him there is no trace of your sudden and uncontrolled temper. He does not, and will not get angry at me – And in the year and a half that I had known him, I had only once seen him angry, and it was not at me, despite all of the terrible things that I have done to evoke his anger. He is not angry, he is not violent – He will not hit me, choke me, call me a cunt as we pack for a holiday as I watched you do to my mother. He will not stay on the couch and refuse to leave as you did, making my mother drive alone for four hours because you are tired.

You call him a jobless little man without knowing, or asking, that he works two jobs – that he works harder and longer than you do, saving for the day that we will be reunited. You do not know or care how your words affected him, as all he had wanted was to be liked, perhaps respected. You do not see a person, though because of the distance, neither do I – You seem to have forgotten the flowers he laid upon your table for your birthday, the efforts he had made. You make him into the smallest and the most worthless despite the fact that he proves to be more than a man.

He is kind to animals, and the homeless, and he does not shoot at birds and scream at dogs the way you do – Yes, he does not have your money in the bank, but he will buy a homeless man food when he hardly has money for food himself. He will carry a bug out of a house before he will kill it. He is a kind man, but kindness does not matter in the face of status and money, does it?

I am hard to love, you know this, you too have had your struggles, but every flaw and every mistake that you have so openly criticized, he has loved and cherished. Every scar, he has kissed.

You had made me feel like what we did was an act of greed, impatience – like I am a child playing adult – when what we did was an act of love that should not be rendered as ugly and meaningless as you made it sound. You make me feel like I am a child, and perhaps I still am, and in your eyes, I always will be – but the truth is, I do no longer live with you. For nine months of the year, I do not live under your roof or on your side of the country, and everything that you are scared I will do with him, I can do here – you seem to miss that fact. When I return, I will work hard at my job for two months, there is no time to be a child anymore.

In your fear of keeping me pure, you have lost sight of me. You have lost the ability to communicate with me and I have not heard your voice in almost three months. You cannot tell me you love me as you do not know who I am, you call me names as your anger takes over. At this stage your anger is all I remember of you, though I know all of the sacrifices you had made for me, and how you carried me through many younger years.

Do not hate me because I am changing, and growing up and wishing to make my own decisions – trust that you had raised me to have dignity and self respect – trust my choices.

I no longer live with you, but I love you. I am simply so hurt at your words, your actions and your anger. Your anger disgusts and terrifies me, and I sometimes still fear for my mother. But I know you are my father and you love me – or you did. For that I am grateful, but for now – my future is uncertain, adulthood is looming, and I am scared.


Why do I have to be the fattest out of all my friends?

Why do I have to be the laziest?

Why do I have to have the worst skin and perform the worst academically.

Why can’t I have a flat stomach and a tiny ass and thighs that aren’t twice the size of my face.

Honestly who the fuck decides these things? Why is one person classy and smart and beautiful and skinny and the next person is fat and dumb with an awful skin and hardly any redeemable qualities? Who the fuck decides that’s fair. Why the fuck can’t I just be who I want to be why do I always feel like the odd one out that no one really likes and everyone tolerates and the fat friend while everyone discusses everyone’s weight loss and muscles and tiny amount of body fat. Why do I then have to sit excluded from the crowd.

Why the FUCK can’t i control my eating habits. Why the FUCK does my life revolve around food. WHY. Why am I such a fucking weak person.


You wake up one day scared you’re gonna live

I wish I could just stop being so goddamn sad all the time.

I wish that I wasn’t always unhappy or frowning or fucking anxious that I annoy everyone around me. I wish that I didn’t have acne-scarred skin and yellow fucking hair. I wish that I wasn’t overweight with ugly stretchmarks because I’m the hopeless wonder that gains almost 20kgs in maybe two months.

I wish that I didn’t have a boyfriend who never finished school, and who can’t drive and doesn’t own a suit and everything else that seems really superficial but I get really tired of defending.

But mostly I wish I could get out of bed in the morning and not lift up my shirt, look at my stomach, curse and frown, take a shower, consider getting back into bed, sitting on the bed, contemplating just staying there. I wish that I could have one day where getting out of bed wasn’t my biggest achievement. I want to not lay on my bed the whole day staring at the ceiling, not being able to do anything.

I want to be able to enjoy going out and socializing and dancing. I want to not spend all of my money on food only ending up eating it all in one day and spending the rest of the week starving myself. I want to not be controlled by food. I want to not come home every day and just sleep so I don’t eat or because I have nothing better to do all day. Am I really that person? Does my life not have any meaning?

I wake up, I go to class, I come home, I sleep, I eat, I stare into space until it’s time to bed.

Then I have my fucking roommate miss academia and house comm who fucking works all the time and has friends and a social life and is skinny and how can one person have their life so together and I can’t even manage to get out of bed, a good day is when I can actually convince myself to do laundry. This crippling hopelessness is not something that I think I can live with. Seeing everyone I went to school with losing weight, becoming more and more beautiful, building a life for themselves.

Honestly I don’t think I’ve grown at all since last year, I’d like to convince myself that I have. Yes so working in a restaurant is not that bad and now I go back willingly, yes I lost my virginity and we fucked like bunnies all though spring/summer. Yes I was actually skinny for maybe a month until I ballooned out of “happiness” and have since been fatter than ever, leaving my self esteem shatters.

I just want to feel equal, good enough for once. I’m tired of seeing myself as the fat friend or the quiet friend or the friend that is fucking incapable of fucking being social and how is it that after a year I am still sat here fucking comparing myself to fucking dickheads that I actually couldn’t fucking stand in high school??

Why are their lives so great?? Why do I constantly feel like I am fucking only being tolerated by the people that I call my friends? Why can’t i just be understood. I don’t even want to be understood. I just want to be vapidly and superficially, physically pretty. Like, yes, all the recovering eating disorder people say that chasing happiness in losing weight never lead anyone to true happiness, but .. I was happy?? I was so happy????? I was so confident??? Wearing all the clothes then and seeing the way it looks on me now? FUCK.

My residence formal is in a few weeks and my prom dress doesn’t even fit me anymore.

And it’s my fault because I was being so irresponsible. Irresponsible with food and my weight and my future !! I’m not in house comm, I do no extra curricular activities, my CV is almost blank because I can’t fucking get myself out of bed in the mornings.

I’m SO tired of being unhappy.


“Eating disorders linger so long, undetected, eroding the body in silence, and then they strike. The secret is out. You’re dying.” (Wasted; pg 2)

When it all comes out, the people we love will kick themselves for not noticing, for not realizing sooner the way we punish ourselves. If you really look closely, it is all so obvious, but things like these never resonate. “It could never happen to me, not my child,”, the same I’d think with teen pregnancy. There was a girl in my high school, a year older than I am. It took her months to realize she was expecting. I suppose if it were a movie, morning sickness, weight gain and the works would be obvious, but if it’s you, and it’s your life, you always think it would never happen.

So families have their children, dieting, exercising, and even restricting. They think, oh good, she’s losing weight, she’s being healthy and taking care of herself. Anorexia never comes to mind. It’s not until they’re only skin and bones and lying in a hospital bed until you realize that these things are real and these things could happen to anyone.

Holding on for the sake of holding on

I shouldn’t even attempt to have normal relationships. I should just be the little hermit who stays in her room and only befriends emotionally damaged people who keep their distance.

I have questions, but no answers. I understand that in a relationship, there are tough times. There are times where you want to kill your significant other and you would consider it if it weren’t for the fact that you would get caught. There are times you have to work for the relationship, and work hard. I get it, love is no walk in the park, but is there a line? How do you know whether you are in a rough patch, or you have reached the end?

I feel like I’m just over it. I can’t be bothered anymore, and if any of you have read my previous posts, you would see that I have been feeling this way for a while now. Whenever I talk to her, I find myself wishing that I did not have to talk to her, that I never have to talk to her again. It’s just effort.

And then the little bitch goes on about my attitude, how she has gotten over what’s happened to me this past year, she has accepted it, like she even knows what it’s been like, like that’s the part of all of this that’s been bothering me. She’s a fucking child locked up in her room for most of her time, not interacting with anyone except her big fucking stuffed bear. And then she sits back and judges me, always having an opinion about things she has no knowledge of. Ranting about her doesn’t even make me feel better, and ranting has gotten me through a lot. Whenever I rant, I just find something else to be annoyed about. Maybe too much has happened. Maybe we are just too incompatible. Maybe we’re too the same, and if I can hardly stand myself, why the fuck would I be able to handle someone who is exactly like me?

I get annoyed with her when she’s happy. What kind of person am I? Oh she’s out with her friends, oh she’s happy, better be short and ignore her to spoil her mood. That’s basically what happens. And it’s not like I want to hang out with her and her little friends, but if we’re going to be completely honest, if I were to see my friends, whenever I make plans with them, I invite her. I always cart her little ass along, regretting it 9 out of 10 times because of her little attitude like her being there is a favor to me. And then suddenly this year when her best friends turn around and leave for varsity, now she suddenly likes my friends, now she wants to see and hang out with them. Sorry sweety, wave them goodbye.

And her baby talk. Mother of god, I just can’t take it. If you’re seventeen years old, there is absolutely, positively no fucking reason for you to fucking talk like a three year old in a conversation with someone your age, or older than you. This is probably the biggest reason talking to her is such a motherfucker of a chore. I try so hard to talk to her, and then she tries to act all cute. Seriously at what age do you stop convincing yourself you’re a toddler inside? Not to mention the complete bullshit she talks about. Wow, the teacher who so happily let you shove your head up their ass, your school marks that now suddenly measure up to mine after your lovely rant about how no one could do that well without obvious favoritism, or your inadequate art. Best of all your backstabbing childish little school chums lives. Let’s be honest, there’s really nothing to talk about anymore. Everything she says annoys the shit out of me.

We had a fight the other day, and didn’t talk for two days. I happily deleted her number and didn’t think about her. When she popped up telling me she misses me, honestly I was tempted to just tell her to fuck off again.

But then I think, we’ve known each other for more than a year. We had a solid relationship, we have relied on each other, my friends know and are used to her. I still have her books, I want to do a detox with her family. If I ended this for good, it would be the end of many things. And, though I don’t feel like it now, it might be something I regret later on. I must say, being completely honest, picturing a life without her right now did not seem so bad. Sigh.

At times I wish I had never met her. I wonder how different my life would be. As I said, we relied on one another, she has changed my perspective on life. Not in a good way. She’s managed to make me feel average, fearful, unimportant, needy. My life, especially this year, would be so much different. And I wish I could just go back and never start this mess. I was perfectly happy in my little bubble, with my little group of friends and my vague plans for greatness. I didn’t need her, I’ve never needed her.


Hiding pieces of ourselves so people would like us better

Another quick thought.

I feel like when people meet us we should just wear big signs around our neck that say “I’m emotionally unstable” or “I’m fucking crazy”. Just as a warning, to avoid fights in the future.

When we meet someone, we pretend we’re normal, we hide our flaws, we often wait years to reveal our true selves or attempt to hide it forever, but what is the point? How is that justified? You do it because you want this person to like you, and yet you spend your entire life with this person pretending to be someone you’re not, or less, pretending to be less of you.

I’ll admit, I have that same problem. How do you even tell someone these things without seeming like you just want attention?

I wish when I met her I could have just gone “Hi, I’m fucking crazy and emotionally unstable and severely bipolar and I have crippling anxiety that totally ruins my life and I hate myself to the point where I criticize everything I do but it’s okay because I laugh it off and appear super confident and actually I’m battling anorexia but please let’s talk about food because it’s all I think about and I pretend not to like physical affection but it’s only because when people touch me I fall apart and want to cry.”

At least then she’d know who I am. It’s all I am. I sincerely don’t even know how to accurately describe myself in another way.

It’s not even that I need her to take care of me. I just need her to know so that what I do makes sense to her. But it’s too late now. Forever stuck pretending to be half a person.