purpleglitter found one of my zyprexa pills in an old bag of hers today. That brings back memories, though not good ones.

I haven't been on that nasty shit for around 5 years. On it, I gained 50 pounds in 2 months, providing me with stretch marks, triggering eating disorders that lasted years, perhaps permanently screwing up my metabolism. All that for the first in a line of zombie pills I was given.

At the peak, I had 7 prescriptions – 5 of them psych drugs. For years I was deluded that some drug cocktails would be the answer. I clung to the belief that they would offer some sort of "cure" or at least would help me get through "it".

Well, at least I learned a very important lesson: the only thing that can get me through "it" is me. Realizing that – truly realizing that – has allowed me to make the progress I have these last couple years. I just wish I didn't have to take all those gorram drugs to learn I didn't need them.

I feel old. Last week, a 16 year old added me to their friends list. That in itself did not make me feel old. What made me feel old was that she was born in 1990.

Outside of that, there are many things contributing to me feeling old nowadays. I walk around with a cane, sometimes with a slow and laboured gait. My hair is grey. I regularly talk in decades rather than years. I've found my self starting sentences with "Back in my day...". I've become more forgetful (if that was possible) and my mind just doesn't work as fast as it used to. Health problems are one of my favorite conversation topics, and if you want to you can see my scars.

I'm 32, but I often hear it said you're only as old as you feel. In which case, I'm really 78.

My slip up yesterday will not be a slide back into bulimia. I will not go back to purging 3-5 times a day. Only purging once in the past week is still a hard-fought accomplishment. But I'm not satisfied with once a week. I want to be free of it. I want it out of my life. I know it will take a lot of effort, but I believe it's something I can do. Moving past bulimia will be a very powerful step towards getting better in general.

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I haven't cut in about a month. I still self harm in other ways, everyday. Beating myself with my fists. Pounding my head into things. Whipping myself with coathangers. But I'm not drawing blood or leaving scars. However twisted, it's still progress. I must still fight the urge to cut everyday. So far this month I've been successful in doing that. I know if that I slip up, it won't be the end of the world. But, I intend not to slip up. I intend to get better. I intend to heal. I am not defeated.

I've spent most of today incredibly depressed. I spent a quite some time playing with razor blades. Didn't actually cut, just looked at them and imagined. Imagined cutting. Imagined letting everything bleed out. I'm afraid to start cutting again, but I want to let all the pain just bleed out. I just want it all gone. The soft streams of brilliant red. I miss them. I want them back, but then again I don't. I fear them. I want no more scars, but I want them too.

I wrote this poem about a week ago.

My Fragile Flower my fragile flower it hurts me to see her in this monstrous world what they must have done to her beautiful soul I wish I could heal her knotted scars and set her free

I fucked up and purged for the first time in 24 days. I so hated myself for doing it I cut up my scar-ridden ugly arm. I hate myself. Why can't I ever fucking move forward? Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. I hate this whole fucking thing. I hate myself. I would like all this bullshit to be over with. It would all be easier if I just wasn't existing any fucking more. I wish it would go ahead and snow.

I cut earlier today. On my arms and legs. Stupid really. I'm too hard on myself. I felt I deserved it. I need to stop this, it's getting out of hand again. It seems to come in cycles. I do it once or twice a week for a while, then I stop for a while. I am fed up with the scars. I am fed up with the whole thing. I'm fed up with myself.