She dreamed of bones. Obvious, protruding from her skin like black rocks on the shore of a stormy beach. She wanted them to define her, to make her. Masked only by a thin sheet of snow-coloured skin they would be her. She would be the walking skeleton -the haunted remains of what was once a pure soul. The origins of children’s nightmares -she would shake them awake with her silent screams. The screams that were only heard when her worn joints rubbed together in a fit of pure agony. The screams that hid behind the ever-constant repetition of the phrase that had become the entirety of her vocabulary,
“I’m not hungry.”
The screams that filled the ever growing empty space of her clothes which hung like a black cloud of dread and fear and regret over her.
The screams she longed to voice.

She would not stop. She would never stop.
Not until she was bones. Not until she was perfect. 

And I've just binged.
I know when I say this people think,
"It's her own fault. She shouldn't cry about it. She just needs to get over it and not complain about it."
But I don't know what happens to me. I'm not even hungry I just need to eat... everything. And I mean that. I want to clear the cupboards. I want it all in my digestive tract.
Fuck.
Seriously just fuck.

--Andria

I don't know if it's getting worse or better. Truly, it all generally feels the same now. I can feel slightly less drained -but I am never full. No, I can't be full can I? That's not what it wants. It wants me to suffer. It wants me to die. And one day I will, but not yet.
I can't tell if I want to beat it any more. Do I really want to "get better"? Do I want to be like everyone else? Do I want to be happy? What does happy even feel like? I don't know. I can't tell the honest difference between emotions. I'm not even sure if I have them. This can't be what emptiness is -can it?
If so then it's truly overrated.
Everyday is a true struggle. To move, to think, to speak, to eat... It all just hurts so much. I need to get away from here but I can't. I need to tell someone but I can't. I'll never be able to truly tell anyone what this feels like. I can't even explain it.
It's like my heart is beating so fast and I can hear it and feel it thrumming around in my chest but at the same time I feel so devastatingly finished and hollow.
And I don't know what is the enemy and what is the friend. Is food the one I should trust? Because it doesn't like that at all. It screams when I go to eat. It thrashes into me when I swallow. It hates me, it truly does. It hates what I am and it hates what I want. It's feeding off of me.
And I adore when it does.

--Andria