"End this sweet madness, all it's glorious sadness"

That's from the song "Angel" by Sarah McLachlin

Warning: I’ve lost my mind.  I can not be held responsible for the crap I spew out.

I suppose since no one reads this crap anyway I can say what I want.  And what I say is purely none of your business, but I feel better when I say my shit and send it to the universe . 

And today I won’t make sense.  I am going to throw it out like the garbage that it is and not regret it.  “We will not regret the past not wish to shut the door on it.”  That’s what we say in our AA meetings and EDA meetings.  But I do regret the past.  I regret being born, I regret being abused, I regret gaining weight back.  I regret everything.

My favorite tattoo reads, “For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’”  I wonder what might have become of me if I had not been abused.  I wonder what would have happened to that little girl had she not been hurt.  I wonder what might have been of me.  Would I be a capable, productive member of society?  Would I have normal friendships and relationships?  Would I not feel this innate, inconsolable loneliness? 

We are out of town for the holidays and it isn’t a good idea for me to be away from home.  I am very unhappy and I can only guess it’s my effing weight.  I know everyone notices I am sad because they ask me if I’m alright.  No, dammit.  I am not alright.  I am constantly worrying about everything I put in my mouth.  Even the broiled broccoli for dinner was a sin.  

And I have no suitable clothes to wear.  I packed jeans in my suitcase but I can’t stand the way they feel against my skin.  I can feel how large I am when my skin grazes against the fabric of my jeans.  I hate them!  So all I’ve been wearing are lounge wear and sweats.  Clothes that I can’t feel myself in.  My  lounge wear is large and I can get lost in my clothes.  And why I don’t know exactly how my abuse is linked to feeling my skin in my body, I do know that I can’t feel his hands on me when my clothes are huge and don’t hug the skin.  When I’m smaller I don’t feel his hands between my legs, but I do now and it hurts, hurts, hurts.  I feel his god damn hands and I don’t want to anymore.  There are lots of us hear.  Hurting.  Crying.  Needing some kind of release. The littles are here.  The self-harmers are here.  It’s all gone to hell.  

Hi, my name is Sophie, and I was raped.

“Let me be empty, oh, and weightless, and maybe, I’ll find some peace tonight”  ~ “Angel” by Sarah McLachlin