Here I am, back again, still not knowing what to do.

Do I start a new blog and write about my mental health issues under my full name? That would open me up to potential judgment from people who know me. I wish I were brave enough to accept that and own my story, but I’m not. Not yet, anyway. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, or think I’m crazy, or selfish, or whatever else. I would hate for my posts to be ignored. I would hate people to think that all I talk about or think about is myself, even if that does feel like the case sometimes. I can’t have this stuff brushed off or overlooked by people who are in my life. I can handle that from strangers, but not from loved ones.

What I’m struggling with is my sense of unworthiness. It underscores everything. My whole life. How can I build a productive, rewarding life on such a shaky foundation? I cannot. The foundation must be repaired. It must be reinforced and shored up. Or totally rebuilt. But how do I do that? Can I write my way out of this hole? Can I write my way to healing? I think I shall try. I am a writer; I shall write.

Because the fact of the matter is, I deserve my body.

I DESERVE MY BODY. I deserve to have my body look however it wants to look. I deserve it and I own it.



This might seem unhinged – caps-lock-yelling affirmations into the void. But I don’t care. If it will help me heal, I will do it. I deserve good health. I deserve to be happy. I deserve it. Maybe if I say it often enough, I’ll start to believe it.

I don’t even want to talk about it much right now because it makes me anxious and tense, but my natural figure is slender. I am making myself gain weight out of desperation, and helplessness and hopelessness and fear and rage. I am self-flagellating in a misguided attempt at atonement. I am trying to kill the beast inside with too much food. I am hurting myself. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hurting myself. When I am hurting myself, I am no use to anyone.



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