Starting with no direction - Ending with an actual conclusion.

The delete button has been hit with brute force more than any other button; a crator in the keyboard is threatening to open. Words form, and just as suddenly disappear, jumping off the page before they become permanent, as if afraid to be exposed to wandering eyes.

The beginnings of sentences are the endings of sentences - a steep climb leading to the edge of a cliff, where fullstops don't have a chance of staying put... They're doomed to roll off the edge into the savage waters waiting below, swallowing up any possibility of a complete phrase.

These words don't speak. Their meanings are meaningless.

The jigsaw puzzle that is my mind, my thoughts, my feelings; none of the pieces fit together. If the chaos in my mind was depicted through a teenagers room... My Mother would have a heart attack. Yes, the words and the ability to express myself  are  as impossible to find as those pair of shoes hidden somewhere on the floor beneath the entire contents of your wardrobe.

A horrendous visual image.

I hate having to force myself to write. The act of writing is usually soothing; I'm able to express all thoughts and feelings without actually thinking about it, it just comes naturally. But now, for some reason, it's not so.

I have been so stressed lately. This is probably contributing to my mental blockage. Too busy to think about 'trivial' things such as artfully stringing together words - it's concentrating all its energy into keeping me alive. There's no room to wander aimlessly and freely along because there's a fear of being pounced on in its vunlerable state by a mean, destructive, influencing thing, facading as a sweet & harmless friend. This voice, or whatever it is, the "ED", has wrapped itself up in many disguises in the hope that I'll fall for it, and fall victim to whatever torment is in store.

 I'm sad to say that I've been like a child promised candy by a stranger... Eager, willing, naive.

This morning, like every week since what seems to have been the beginning of time, my fate will again be held by the ticking numbers on the scale. Again, it all comes down to a number. But I have a feeling that this number is more than just my body weight... It's an indication of whether I am able to do this for myself.

Yes, I've been stressed this week - moreso than usual. Yes, I've cheated myself, and probably haven't consumed enough food. Yes, I've tried. But whether I've tried hard enough or not is the real question.

* * *

Something hit home yesterday.

A friend that I hadn't seen in quite some time came up behind me at school and picked me up, giving me a huge bear hug. When I turned around, she was smiling, but there was something in her beautiful, clear blue eyes that wasn't showing happiness. It was fear, concern, pain.

She hugged me, and then:

"Dude, you have gotten so thin. Eleanor, do you realize just how skinny you are?"

She ran her hand over my ribcage, then looked at me again with that pained look. I could see she was sincere. She meant it, she wasn't just saying it.

I looked at her. I looked down. I shook my head.

I honestly don't realize what I look like.

This girl, she's incredible and I love her so much. I couldn't, wouldn't, wont lie to her. I told her, I told her straight:

"I'm getting better. I'm doing this. I promise."

And I mean it this time.

No more bullshit.

No more empty promises.

No more broken promises.

I hate seeing my Mum hurt.

I hate that she ignores me because she's too scared to say anything to me.

I hate that she can't look at me for long; I hate knowing that she is ashamed that I am where I am now, and that nothing is changing.

I hate crying to my Dad.

I hate being out of energy.

I hate getting weighed every week.

I hate battling with thoughts of food.

I hate that I have had to postpone my education in order to look after my health.

I can't be here any more.

I'm changing this.

I. Am. Going. To. Live.

love, love, love.