Personal Hell

It's been a year, twelve long months since I walked into a doctors office to prove to everyone that they were wrong. That I wasn't sick. And instead my life went for a ride, an up and down battle between pretending to be okay, being okay, and just downright being a mess. I'm tired, it's a year later, and I'm just tired. Tired of making excuses, tired of feeling stuck, tired of living is shadow of the life I set out to live. 

I went through a phase where I ate ice cream every night, one where I lived on rice and beans, one in which cereal kept my heart beating, one in which I survived merely on pickles and flavored water, one where I ate grilled cheese and goldfish, and even one made up simply of chicken tacos. In none of those stages was I more healthy than in the past, I just did things the same way, over and over and over again. 

Cognitively I know I'm sick. I know that eating one meal and two snacks a day isn't helping my heart beat return to normal. I know that finding my head in the toliet multiple times a week, regardless of the reason, isn't normal. But I don't feel sick, I feel like an attention seeking whore who is too afraid to life live so she hides. Those are strong words, but they are how I feel. 

I don't remember what life looks like before an eating disorder. I don't remember a time in my life where I ate what I wanted without something making me second guess it, whether it be the safety of the food, the calories, of the weight it would add to my body, food hasn't ever been a normality for me. But this, this is living in hell, a hell designed in a special way just for me. A hell that knows my biggest fears and my worst insecurities, a hell that can build upon my weaknesses and minimize my strength. 

A hell however with a key, somewhere. It used to belong to me, my strong willed and stubborn hands never letting go, never entering into the hell filled with memories of neglect, loss, abuse, and pain. Avoidance at its best as the death grip I held on that key, hiding it from sight removing it from my titled reality. The world however kept turning the hell of pain opening as I threw new demons in one by one until the moment when in with the demons went the key. And now in the midst of the hell is the only key to lock the door. Instead of fighting the demons to find the key, I run.

I run from the hidden secrets and the pain. I run from the past. I run from my demons. I run from my hell. But I'm tired. I'm tired of running and I'm running slower and slower. Hell is inching in, gaining more control of my days with each passing second. So I fought, I fought them, and I cried, and I kicked and I screamed. But, now I'm tired, I'm done fighting. I smile and I laugh and the demons of my personal hell rip apart my heart. 

The worst part is, no one sees the demons killing me, no one can see my own personal hell except me. With each passing day I get better at taking the beatings, something I have always been good at, taking the beatings, taking the blame, and doing so with a wink and a smile. 

I've been through so many phases. I've eaten the same food, I haven't eaten, weighing myself twenty times a day, never weighing myself, weighing myself everyone other day,  I've been completely dedicated to recovery (for like 2 days, but still a stage), I've cried, I've smiled, I fought, and I've given in but now I'm just tired. I'm tired of the stages, I'm tired of it all, and after all the stages, I'm back where I started. 

The key is hidden and the only way to find it again, the only way to be able to close the door of hell, is to fight back, to dive head first into the demons and find the key. Find the key and fight for it back, so I can be in charge of opening in closing that door. Right now my demons open it, they hold the key, and with loud noises, or scary food they open it, raging their ugly heads scaring me into a dark dark place where light barely shines in and I am left to hope and pray I make it through this attack. 

I think it's time to find my key.