A few weeks ago I was sat in class, stressed, exhausted and hopeless and I daydreamed about a big house somewhere far away in the mountains, by a big lake and a lot of silence. I imagined how I would go there, and I would heal my heart. The last two weeks I have spent at my grandparents house, in a small village buried deep inside countless fields, nothing forcing me to plan my future. And I feel like the last two weeks have  truly been like rehab to me. When I left for christmas break I was so miserable, and sad, and completely broken. I cried every single day, and death seemed beautiful, because it was easy. Yet today as I sit here in the darkness I find myself not so afraid to plan a future. Living is becoming less dangerous, I feel like maybe I could free myself from this sadness and I could love life again. Yet I'm afraid. I'm afraid that my depression is the best part of me, or that it's the only part of me, and that letting it go will be detrimental to me...somehow. A part of me wants to jump into happiness and never look back, yet another one wants to crawl back into the darkness and self-loathing. One thing I do know, happiness tends to lead to weight gain, and that would chase me back into the darkest self-hate of all in no time. 

I am so fucking tired of not eating, and restricting, and the scales always disappointing me. The past few days I have been a ridiculous failure, I've embraced food and ignored the scales. I may continue doing just that at least until the 9th, that's when I leave my grandmothers. 3 more days of living life like a normal person, and feeling like a big fat whale that deserves nothing more than death. I've tried going back to not eating but every day I fail. I don't even try anymore, I just get up and say yes to breakfast, and then to lunch and dinner. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I hate this. To me, getting better actually means getting worse. 

I haven't written in a while… I think mostly because I can't bring myself to write about what a failure I've turned into. I was sat in the kitchen with my mum today watching TV when she turned to me and asked me about college, and as the guilt sank deep into my skin and I told lie after lie (my whole existence has turned into a lie) I wanted to run. Reality has never scared me more than it has in the past few weeks. I want to be dead, and what's worse, I want it everyday and I mean it.

I don't know whether it's my ED that made me hate myself so much, or whether it's the self-hate that pushed me towards an ED. It's like the mystery of the chicken and the egg, I don't think I'll ever know which caused which.

My last few weeks of school before the christmas break were a mess. I spent most days high, because it's the one thing that keeps me calm, that makes me oblivious to how much I hate myself and my whole world, and it makes it easier not to eat. I panicked before coming home, did I look any good for my family to see me? Will they judge me? Am I too fat to get on that plane? I went and dyed my hair, it's almost black now, I decided I needed something to remind me to starve whilst I'm at home. The last time I went home for a long time I lost my control and became a disgusting pig, and I would rather die than have that happen again. I went and bought new jeans, tight, always reminding me to hold in my stomach, to say no to all food. When I got home I knew there was a problem. Here I was, in our apartment, and I was acting like I was on a catwalk, obsessed with finding an angle from which I'd look my skinniest to them. My sister noticed the weight loss immediately, and for a few days I felt great. I danced around with my new body, taking in all the compliments I could get. There is nothing I want to hear other than 'you look thinner' anymore.

My mum noticed how obsessed I've become with weight loss, and food, and the scales. I practically cried in front of her when we got to my grandparents and I found out that their scales are broken. First thing I had to do was go into town and buy new ones. It doesn't bother me that she noticed though, or that she comments on it constantly, she doesn't even know what an eating disorder is, she has no idea they exist, so she can never suspect a thing. All my family is in fact completely oblivious to what I've become. Something they did notice though is my scars. My sister grabbed my hand and looked at the cigarette burns and asked me what they were. I told here I accidentally leaned on an ashtray whilst drunk, a story that makes practically no sense but she bought it anyway. My mum noticed a couple of weeks later, I told her the same story and she looked at me suspiciously, and told me she's not sure whether she believes me, and that she will look into how such scars happen. She forgot all about them though as soon as those words left her mouth. I'm safe, no one cares and no one notices.

I've been falling deeper and deeper into depression. I hate everything about myself, every day I weight myself and every day I stare at my reflection and see an ogre. I've been at my grandparents for a week now, some days I fasted, some I ate, but I've been abusing laxatives like crazy all the time. I've got 4 days left here, I've gained a kilo so far and I don't understand how, but now I need to solve that. I made myself throw up on the 31st of December for the first time after months of avoiding it, I've always hated purging. And then it became a habit yet again. I've done it every day since, and then I take laxatives to take care of the rest. In fact once I'm done with this post I'm going upstairs to take my daily dose, 4 a day, as a rule, as a minimum. Sometimes I take 5 if I feel like I've been extra bad. Once we go back home I want to starve for days, and then when I go back to college I can make it my lifestyle yet again and not have anyone mess with my routine. I need to lose so much more.

I'll really try to write more from now on... writing is the only thing that keeps me sane.