Malcontent

My discontent with life is growing more each day. I hate myself, I hate my body, and I wish more than anything I could crawl out of my body. My skin crawls. I feel uncomfortable in it. It literally hurts just being in my own body because of how uncomfortable it makes me. I claw at it, wishing I could cut it off. I’ve considered it. I’ve held the blade to my skin. I just lack the resolve. I lack the courage.

I long to be a mother. It’s something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. I have always been around children, worked with children, nannied. It’s not enough. I desperately want a child of my own. Yet, I know I can’t support one right now, so I don’t have any children. The timing has never “been right”.  I cry sometimes because of my longing for motherhood.

I want to be self-sufficient and independent. I want to live on my own. I am too sick to work and I don’t make enough on disability to live on my own.

Thing after thing that I lack just builds in front of my eyes until it’s all I can see and I drown in the weight of it all.

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This is why

“This is why,“ I think to myself as I take another bite of pasta. “This is why you can’t lose any weight despite hours of exercise each day.”

This is how I deal with stress, with disappointment, with not knowing what to do. I eat and I exercise. I used to purge, but I haven’t done much of that since leaving treatment a month ago. Now I just kill myself on my bike. Which I did, right before eating the pasta.

I was supposed to go car shopping today, but due to a series of events, was unable to. That’s the 4th time in a row. I’m beginning to think I will never be able to buy a car. All I want is a little independence. All I want is to be able to get around when my fibromyalgia is acting up. All I want is stability. All I want is freedom.

All I get is disappointment. So, all I do is exercise and eat. It’s better than the alternative, I suppose. I really wanted to cut, but I worked out and ate pasta instead. It’s “safer” at the very least, I’m told. Better to kill myself slowly with bulimia than to slice open my veins, they tell me.

Just once, I want something to go right.