Having it

It’s frustrating. Waking up one day and who decides that

Your mind will be so fucked up.

Thinking in numbers but also working hard not to

And then being upset when the numbers don’t add up.

It’s wanting attention and wanting to be ignored at the same time

Wanting someone to ask if you’re ok but getting angry when they do.

For months everything fine, average. And then, one day a total

Breakdown.

Sobs, shaking breaths, self-hatred, wanting to cut the fat off with a

Knife. I hate myself, can’t stand mirrors, everything is skin

And white lumpy fat. No beauty

No potential, no hope. The journey forward of five years brought

Back to square one, crying on the bottom of the shower floor,

Not being able to see anything except those god damn numbers, the weight

And the food and the sizes and everything. No beauty.

No hope.

You don’t know what it’s like until you’ve lived it

Breathed it for every damn day since you were twelve

Had it perched on your shoulder, judging everything you do, even if it’s not eating,

But talking, dating, laughing, living. No safe place to escape. Maybe a

Reprieve for a bit, but it always comes back. It’s like a personal skeleton in your closet

(No pun intended) that eats away at your life

Little by little

Until every thought is not your own and you can’t really remember the before part of your life,

Can’t remember who you used to be, or is it who you really are?

Anyways, you can’t pretend you know. Or say you understand. You don’t.

And you really don’t want to. So continue pitying it if you want, looking down or feeling sorry, whatever the hell floats your pathetic psychobabble boat. But don’t EVER pretend you know what it’s like to have

it.