It’s not a secret that I’ve had struggles; my scars, while fading, are still visible. And I’m glad to know you all believe I am better and worry no longer.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was having a suicidal episode again in July.
The reason I wasn’t very social during our family reunion at the beach was because the high dose of laxatives I was taking didn’t allow me the courtesy of choosing when I must visit the bathroom, so I thought it was much safer to remain in the condo, instead of braving the long trek to the porta-potties that the beach requires.
On the same note, dear aunt, it was me who ate your entire box of poptarts and the rest of your chocolate-chip granola bars.
I don’t eat at weird times or alone in my room just for the fun of it. I’m uncomfortable with people watching me eat. So, sorry grandpa, for snapping at you.
I throw up in the shower. I actually enjoy throwing up in the shower. Or, I did. Now I just wish I could stop.
I can’t stop.
The binge-purge-starve-repeat cycle is wearing on my mind and my body. I black out when I stand, my heart dances to its own rhythm, my body shakes and won’t sleep at the right times.
Sorry, best friend of mine, about my panic attack when I ate those two funnel cakes at the fair. I could feel the grease soaking into my body, and the fair bathrooms brought out my inner germophobe, so I couldn’t sneak in there to throw up. You just weren’t driving home fast enough.
Sorry dad. Sorry for doing this, sorry for not being able to tell you and face your expression. Your guilt.
To all my younger friends and siblings; I wish I were a better role model. While I’m telling y’all to accept your bodies, I’m secretly waiting until you all fall asleep so I can go sneak into the kitchen to binge, and then purge.
Oh, by the way, twins: sorry for leaving the hotel room while y’all were watching the movie on your sixteenth birthday. I had eaten cake and had to go work it off.
Sorry for being so self-absorbed. I want to beat this so bad. So very badly… But I can’t. I can’t ask for help, I can’t face seeing you all disappointed and afraid for me, again. I’ve done too much damage to all of you throughout my life.
I just pray that you know I’m sorry.
Oh, also: I wish you would stop pressuring me into having sex with you. You’re the only one I openly talk to about my problems, and the ironic thing is, I’m pretty sure you’re partly the cause of them. Love ya, though.