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diaryland
(Broken Design-}
{2003-05-03} {8:05 a.m.}
There are secrets in this life I cannot hide………
My life isn’t going as well as I had wished it to be when I was a young teenager, dreaming of the better prospects of wanting a recovered life for myself; wanting to run away from an abused childhood.
Even though I left home 3 days before I graduated from high school, I still haven’t managed to achieve that goal that I was so longing to hope for. I have searched for it, don’t forget that; but somewhere in the forest I closed my eyes and seemed to have gotten lost of my trail of happiness.
I used to be happy. I was happy when I had my first child; experiencing a new life was beyond my imagination. I wanted to be the greatest mom, a better mom than what I had.
Somehow tho I think I failed.
I struggled for ten years to get along with my husband, and failed at that too. But, I wasn’t the one who made me fail; he was. He pushed me away, and now that I am so far away he can’t live without me. Oh well; he should have treated me like a person instead of an infant. I’m not so weak that I can’t handle things but when he does the things he does now, I can’t.
I finally confessed a bitter secret to a great dear person last night. I finally told her I purge. Yes I purge, and I have been for about a month or so. Those of you who haven’t done this, doesn’t know what it feels like. And, those of you who do will understand everything I am about to say.
Bulimia isn’t a very good thing for your body to try and take a hold of, especially when it’s failing all of its healthy habits to make you a whole better person inside. Without that barrier of being able to fight back, you fall more and more until you are so weak that if the slightest wind blew against you, you would break. I feel that I have become my own weakest link. Without that bondage to myself, my soul has become a sluice of self-sacrificing desires. I want to wash out all of the impurities in my body, and in doing that I created a destructive problem. I can’t eat even tho I try my hardest; but every time I think of the word food, I imagine that ass telling me I am fat and that I’m just not damn pretty enough. Plump, heavy, overweight; or whatever. Those words aren’t very becoming to a person who is already having inner anxieties. My ears hear the bitterness in his tone as he breaks me down, creating an ugly image upon myself; and then I feel my heart crack once more. I fall; plummeting to the very bitter end of my battered existence, as I try to hang on and fight back the tears that want to sing my eyes; I give him no justice. I tell him to leave me alone, and he just continues to crack that whip upon my already tortured body, bringing me even further down a darken tunnel of despair. For awhile we will argue and push and prod each other until I am crying and beg someone to give me a ride home.
It never fails. Every time I am with him, or see him I feel like I am playing that scratch on a broken record. Repeating and repeating; I become that broken record. I can’t mend it, or cover up the blemishes that have scarred it so; wanting nothing left to do but discard it. There for in the same sense, discarding myself. I don’t want to be that record, that gets tossed out and becomes forgotten in a pile of rubbish and thrown away never to be remembered. I may feel like garbage but that isn’t me. I’m not a piece of debris where the remains become so wrecked that the fragments have become rubble. My heart may be scarred and broken, but that doesn’t mean I am what I feel. You can’t see what I am on the inside. I may be that broken record, but I would rather repeat myself before I let someone destroy me. I think I have managed through enough heartache now, so as to not want to repeat my broken scarred record of life anymore. I feel like one of those bills you get in the mail “Final Notice Prior to Disconnection” I want to be better. Anyone have any ideas?
-Element of a broken design-