Perfection is Hard

I feel like such a fake. I can’t cry and most days I can go home and pretend that everything is alright, that I’m totally fine. And then night hits and I just fall into this darkness. It becomes overwhelming sucking away all my happiness, all my energy, and I lose all emotions. Until I cut or starve, or plan to cut or starve, or take too many laxatives.
It’s gotten to the point where I’ve started to appreciate my new diagnosis of lactose intolerant. Not because I come a little bit closer to being vegan, and can convince my parents that I’m doing it for health and not diet. But also because every time I eat that cheese or cake or icecream, I know I won’t have to worry about finding some way for it to escape my body, this intolerance works as a laxative in a way I never would have dreamed of. For this, in some sad depressing way, I am great full.
And it’s sad because all I want to do is tell someone, just one person, just so when I start to fall I have someone trying to hold me back. But I know it’s just a way to lose another friend. After all no one wants to hear someone else’s sob tale. And as soon as they hear mine they no longer feel like they can stay. And I swear I can’t be left again, I just can’t handle the pain of it. So for now I’d rather be alone, so that I can focus on the obsession that fuels my bodies depression.