Pain is weakness leaving the body

I don't know what I'd do without you all.
How on earth could I possibly get by without this blog? Without the love and support I receive through this medium?
I just don't know.
My physical 'friends' hate me whenever they see a glimpse of my true tortured soul. I am so sick of this aching, brave facade, but it's not a choice, it's a necessity.


I went away this weekend with 'the club' - one of our weekend camps if you like.
Of course D was there. He spoke to me once or twice in passing, but that was it. It wasn't as if he ignored me exactly, but there was none of the sweet friendliness and enthusiasm that he had shown towards me before. It seems he hadn't told anyone about me visiting him last week, or in fact acknowledged to anyone that we had become anything closer than mere acquaintances. Perhaps on the weekend he felt that he couldn't let the others see him being overly friendly with me? Perhaps he felt awkward? Perhaps he just wanted nothing to do with me? I don't know; I probably never will.

At the end of the weekend, we all went for drinks and some food. I drank too much. I needed confidence. I was convinced the D I knew and loved would suddenly return, all charm and smiles, and at least engage me in conversation. But no, he was still acting like I was nobody, like we weren't even friends. Who was this guy, who privately had made such an effort to get to know me? It was like he'd completely forgotten how well we got on.
Of course I made sure I looked my absolute best.
All that fucking effort. Again.
After he left and I was drunk enough, I texted him, and sure enough, super-friendly, super-sweet, came the reply... so why not act that way to my face - in front of others?

I want to thank you all for the supportive comments on my last post. Things were very black. Your love kept me strong. I promise to catch up with reading and commenting/replying in the next few days. And to Savory in particular, for reminding me why I strive for perfection, why I fight, why I carry on: "you do it for more than just this rubbish boy who doesn't deserve you in all your fragile perfection. We do it because we know there's something bigger and grander out there."

So, D, I don't need your shit. You may like me, you may not. It is irrelevant. You are irrelevant. I'm focused on the bigger picture, the long term goal, I'm focused on ME.

Anyway, that evening, slightly drunk, I came home to my mum to find her in a furious and vile state - something about me not answering her phone calls (although I didn't get any, but hey.) She'd been through my things and read something... she started hurling abuse at me, calling me crazy and sick... even now I'm still not sure exactly what it was she found...
I couldn't deal with it...

I lost control.

It's hard, sitting here now, sober and controlled, trying to write about exactly what happened. I just lost it. I wanted out. I wanted to end it all.
I cried my heart and soul out on my bedroom floor. The rage inside me was uncontrollable. I couldn't even scream. I'm so caged and restrained and restricted in my own home. I wanted to rip up my whole room, burn everything, throw my possessions against the wall, smash my whole existence into pieces... but all I could do was lie on the floor and cry - harder than I can ever remember crying before.
Being away, for just one weekend, being able to escape everything in my life, and then finally having to return to this horrific, cold, unloving reality of home was unbearable - seeing the hate in your mother's eyes and knowing all that exists here is loneliness, emptiness and sickness.
I feel so exhausted with life. Living is just so painful. I have given everything, for nothing. And I cannot escape.

What's the point of being beautiful if you are so dead?

But even on that Sunday evening, as I cried myself sick, as I surveyed my existence with utter despair and hopelessness, I wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have ended my life.
I get up the next day, and the next, and I carry on.
Because I AM A FIGHTER.
I've been fighting the odds all my life. I've been fighting against so many people, so many circumstances, so many thoughts... and maybe I dream beyond my scope, maybe there is no hope, maybe I want more than I can have... but I'm going to live this out until the end.

I will always be a dreamer. I will always have THIS dream: that one day I will be so happy, with a man who loves me, a family, a career, a home. I believe I will look in the mirror and see the body of a woman who succeeded. Even though on paper I am the biggest fuck-up in existence, I believe I can defy the odds against me.
Call me crazy, but I really do believe.


I know all of you are here because you're like me. You don't have the ability to give in. That's why we're still writing and reading and fighting.
I fought to win D. It didn't go according to plan, but so what, I'm moving on. Next day. New fight.
I fought to lose weight. Then I binged, I failed, but so what. Next day. New start.
It's pointless to waste time crying when I should be fighting. And you know, I can feel myself getting stronger. The whole thing with D would have rendered me sick in bed and binging for weeks at uni. Not anymore. One binge, one day under the duvet, and I'm back out again. Fighting.
Do you know why I stayed at 'the club'? Because leaving would have been giving in.

Do you know what most 'normal' people do? They give in. That's what makes them the normal, average population. Oh look, I'm hungry, I'll eat whatever is convenient, whatever tastes nice. Oh look I'm fat, I'll just accept it and buy clothes in a bigger size. Oh look I'm not achieving everything I'm capable of achieving, but I can't be bothered try harder to improve myself.

Do you know why we're here, why we're outcasts? Because we desire to be exceptional. AND WE ARE NOT AFRAID TO FIGHT FOR IT. It's incredibly rare; the fighting gene; the inability to give in. But we have it.

Pain is weakness leaving the body.
Every battle makes us stronger, braver, more skilled.
Until one day, warriors, we will triumph.