.

I’m on max recommended dose of vyvanse and it does not help me at all at this point because I do not eat. the only thing it does is let me starve harder. today I realized if I’m planning to throw everything away I could maybe also consider getting ed treatment instead. but that’s like a thousand times scarier. I am not thin anyway. I don’t think a stranger would know and there’s shame in that. I hate that food is a puzzle that won’t fucking click for me. I don’t know where to start. I hate that my body doesn’t reflect the impact this has had on my life. I hate that I don’t know if recovering would make me feel better or be a more capable person. if I get professional help I would have to get off the medication that saved my life to begin with.

all of it has been a long long long time coming. I hate that I denied it until it’s severe and unbearable, just like I did before. I hate that I‘m surprised how much I’ve fucked myself over with this, just like before. I hate that this has culminated in me being an incredible burden on others.

The scariest aspect of life is how spend, exhausted and running on diminishing fumes you feel but it drags on and on mercilessly...

good morning <3 another day of clinical …

GUESS WHO’S FINALLY FREE FROM FINALS 🥳🎉

3rd shift is slowly draining all of my lifeforce but this place pays rly well + i can get homework done & not really have to interact with a lot of guests so i dont Really wanna leave....but ik if i switched to a day shift i'd wanna quit on the spot

damnit!

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I love. Coming into work. Everyday. And seeing my work station. Look like complete shit. That I have to clean. If I want to start my job.

Y’all I can’t English I am so sorry 😭😭😭

living in my parents house is like. damn the vibes are rancid in here

I'm not sure if season 3 was good or if it was just exhausting to watch. it only works if there's one serial killer, not two

This rainy and grey weather makes me tired day after day. The sun doesn't come out and you also don't get enough light.

I try to open the windows again and again to get some fresh air and I also don't use the radiator but nothing helps. And for sure I'm not much into sweets, so that wouldn't help me too...

Also coffee didn't work. So I'm sitting here at work, in my cold office, tired and waiting for my free time.

I also try to learn but it's not that easy when I'm tired...

a prayer disguised as a grieving poem

i. we ask each other 'are you okay?' two dozen times in the span of two hours, on your sister's seventeenth birthday,         and we mean it to mean 'i love you, but i wish we weren't such damned liars.'             i'm supposed to be this gifted poet,                                                     someone who can make the wildfire burning through their bones                                                 anything more than pain,             but i'm getting worse at differentiating a pen from a floodgate             and all my poems seem more like arson than they should be.  i sat in an almost empty church with you,                 and remembered being seven years old again,                 hands clasped and head tilted upwards,                 praying for salvation; i can't say i don't believe in god anymore,         even though i knew in that church i didn't see the holiness on the cross possible of absolving my sins. i've put too much faith into the hope that something will save me              for it just to be another false detonation. ii. i wish i could've given you a warning label before i conned you into loving me. i wish you could've signed a waiver or written out your consent before i made you a home in this blast radius.  maybe then, i wouldn't feel guilt crawl through me;         maybe then, you wouldn't have sat two seats away in a loud bus four months ago,              two seats away from a panic attack i stifled under my jacket. even two seats away, you were too close. i wrap myself around you, even when everything in me is screaming for space,         for the soft, cold, endless void in which no one can hear you when anxiety hits you; i wrap myself around you, trying to convince myself that by pressing my lips to your shoulder blade          i could convince you of your perfection. i don't think i can,                                                                          and that knowledge tastes like the manna of fallen angels. iii. the sun is slowly dying. that's what i realize during the priest's homily.     i do not listen to the words about apostle-hood or discipleship;     i do not hear him when he speaks of almighty love;     i drown out the syllables that all seem to spell out s a v i n g   g r a c e, and i think about how the sun is going to die. we are living on an earth of dying suns, an earth where two people can fall in love in different ways,         an earth where whatever ink-stained, manna-rotting, angel-fallen, guilt-soaked misery can sit in the small space         between two best friends and turn the girls they used to be into husks of the starlight once held in their hands. iv. for the past three months, i've made a home of empty churches,                                 of false detonations,                                 of houses in my blast radius painted with sin-blue,                                 of quiet panic attacks in loud buses,                                 of a million miles in two seats,                                 of forcing myself to defy the space i crave to hope it pleases you,                                 of the manna of fallen angels                                 of a priest's empty homily,                                 of dying suns,                                 of nothing,                                                     and i've made a home out of love in a heavy coat:                                                             i've made a home out of grief. i am sick and exhausted of trying to make a home of the repulsive need to be seven years old again,             enamored with the world,             living in that full feeling in which you press your hand against your heart             and feel something beat back at you,                                                                             and convinced i was worthy of salvation.

I’m so tired of my own voice, it’s always in my head

I am so incredibly annoying.

Like god do you ever shut up????? I just want it to shut up for five fucking seconds. I don’t want to think about my worthless life or any of this stupid shit in my head. I don’t want to think anymore.