So, since this is becoming more like a bitty postsecret (which no one but i am posting in thus far, rofl):
I'm a wannarexic.
but not for any reason I could explain at all.
it's more than just "oh, i want to be skinny and i'm too lazy to do it the normal way" and i belong to two proana communities. I'm watching daily what these girls and guys go through, so I'm not unaware that it's more than just being bone thin and that it's a disease from what i can tell. it seems almost like something is controlling their minds and i am afraid to have something control my mind that way,
but there are still things.
there is still the nagging voice in my own head.
"you could do it, you know. you haven't eaten today. just don't eat tomorrow, either. and slowly it'll get easier and easier..."
I wish I was my mom's color.
She has skin sort of the color of cappuccino with red undertones (she's what we in the south call a "redbone"). I am on the other hand an irritating color that glows gold on the underside of my arms- it's a deep brown, paler than most black people but darker than almost anyone else in my house (my aunts are light enough that most people think they're white, and my mom is cappucino, and my baby cousin's what we call "high yellow". his sister is the only one dark as me).
I don't even know why.
I told my mother yesterday that black people make me embarrassed of my skin color.
Not white people, like in the sixties and all. Most white people make me proud of my coloring, especially the ones who think of it as exotic- but they like darker black people. Those are the exotic ones; I'm just...black.
I want to be beautiful and exotic.
haha.
I talk about myself so much and no one's even posted in this journal yet.
I idolize martyrs because I feel horribly guilty that the trauma I've endured has never been as bad as the trauma of people that I know and love and/or help.
I hurt myself because I am struggling to make up for being molested,but never having been raped,
for being beaten, but never being beaten badly enough to be in a hospital,
for having a mother with a mental disorder that's gotten her hospitalized, but never being aware of it and therefore probably not traumatized by it,
for having a stepfather who only abused me on the inside, instead of raping or beating me,
and so on.
I hurt myself inside to make up for never having been hurt very badly outside.
Because I have no real reason to be as depressed or as scared or anything else that I am, compared to other people.
I am probably fucking peachy keen compared to some of my friends and to a lot of people in the world.
And yet I keep complaining. I keep crying. I keep scarring myself, scaring myself. I keep slacking off.
So much in my life is better than I deserve for it to be, but I can only focus on and be affected by the bad. I'm afraid of even knowing there is good because if that happens I'm going to lose everything that makes me me. Or so I think, so I fear more than almost anything.
I am already afraid of disappearing; losing what little I know of myself frightens me more than anything.
This is my secret.
I dare you to tell one thing you've never told. (will be screened)
What's the worst lie you've ever been told, and who told it? How did you find out and what did you do? (yes, extensive question.)
blah
sleepy