So since my last post my weight has dropped a whopping, drum roll please... 0.2 pounds. I've just been doing such a fantastic job that (if you're squeamish or are triggered to self harm easily I'd suggest you stop reading) I made three perfect little lines into my hipbones, or at least where my hipbones should be. I'm a scientist, digging for bones, trying to find the forgotten secrets of what it felt like when I used to be happy. I took the un-molded lump of clay that is my body and carved myself a new future. 115. 1-1-5. Right there for me to see whenever I look down. Right there to feel every time the waistband of my pants gets too tight and digs in. Right there to open up again and again every time I fail.
There used to be a person who cared about the scars on my body. Before that there was someone who cared about the scars inside my body. I pushed both of them away. Because that's what I do. That's as much a part of me as the three precise rust colored marks of shame I secretly love to reopen.
The only thing that I seem to love is causing myself pain.