blubber

*Warning* The entry you are about to read was written during a fit of rage quite common with BPD. If it's too much for you to get a glimpse into the reality of a real world problem, mental illness, disorder, CLICK BACK NOW OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and wondered "Who the hell is that?" or "How the fuck did I gain so much weight?"
Try battling those moments every single freaking day at least once. Do you know how hard it is to avoid mirrors? Do you know what it's like when you can FEEL every single pound you gain, EXACTLY where you've gained it? How about being too self conscious to even step foot in the gym? Yeah that's the fun one right there. The gym. I've gone. I've done it. But you know what? My anxiety is so fucking high that I can't breathe right. That makes working out a little difficult. I thought buying a membership would force me to go, because, you know, I hate wasting money. Yeah, it's not happening, yet.
Yet. You like that? It's like my own way of trying to be optimistic. Like, yeah right! SURE! It's nice to think that I might go in there and not feel like the walls are caving in on me, or like I'm burning up from the inside out, or that people are staring at me like this potentially attractive woman who just let herself go a little bit.
We all scope people out. We are all guilty of it. You know that you've kicked yourself in the butt for thinking something along the lines of "Oh, they are cute...in the face. It's a shame they didn't take care of their body..." Well, that's the monologue going on in my head 24/7. As if that's not stressful enough, people telling me the opposite of what I'm feeling throws me into a rage. STOP TELLING ME LIES!
Goddamn lies! Everyone lies! We all know when we have seen someone we know gain weight. Yeah, we don't love them any less, but with this stupid fucking disorder bullcrap that I have, it's just not good enough for me. That's right, not fucking good enough.
I hate looking at older pictures of myself and seeing how pretty I was and knowing that I was happier when I was smaller. There's the truth, people!! I'm happier when I am smaller!! When I met Scott at the end of March I weighed 95-98 lbs at any given point. I don't even want to step on a scale now to see how much that's fluctuated. But, I can guarantee that I'm at least 112 pounds of fat, lardy, undisciplined blubber.
For me, that is how I feel about myself every waking moment. It's only times like these, when I'm not hungry because I've shoved food in my face twice today and I feel like a Beluga, that I am especially hard on myself. This doesn't reflect outwardly to other people, but just how I expect myself to be. Skinner=happier. Happier=better. Better=normal. Normal=not fucked in the head like this.
Tomorrow can be a better day, I guess. I try to tell myself that. That's the learning and growing process. But I know that when I don the ever-flattering scrubs for work, I'm thankful that they are not form-fitting and no one expects me to look good. With that being said, it doesn't make that screeching banshee in my head telling me how sick I feel, how gross I look, how bloated my tummy is, how fat I've become, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
It just doesn't stop until I discipline myself in some way.
Adios, I work in 4 1/2 hours and I feel like I want to rip my spine out and throw it on the ground.
Fabulous.