I've lost my footing on the road to recovery. What defines relapse? Am I there? I don't want to go back. I need a distraction during those dark times - something to pull me away from the magnetic force which is driving me to self-harm. The appeal is too strong, the scent too alluring. My mind races, cascading from thought to thought desperately hoping to land on something that will pause the process, but for nothing. By this point my instinct and urges have already taken over my rational side and before me in the mirror stands Ed.
I am fat. I am ugly. My legs are too big, my back is too wide. I want out of my body. I want out of this world. I don't want to be confined anymore, restrained from reaching my full potential by this horribly flawed body.
Dismorphia.
No.
I laugh on the inside while cringing simultaneously - I know what I look like, mirrors don't lie. I'm not crazy. I see what is. Stop telling me I don't. Stop looking at me like that. I'm almost there. I'm almost perfect. Just a little further.
Today I slipped. I'm still sliding.
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