They Don’t Know; You Don’t Know.

They don’t know the madness that lies in your heart. They can’t feel the distress that consumes your soul. They can’t feel what you feel when you touch yourself – when you touch your body while you look in the mirror. Hatred. You feel hatred. They don’t know what goes on inside that pretty little mind of yours. Every second spent looking in the mirror is a new chance and opportunity to look for flaws. ‘Those stretch marks weren’t there yesterday!’ You think to yourself. ‘That cellulite wasn’t as bad as it was last week!’ You think to yourself.
‘Why can’t I be beautiful?’ You say aloud.
Being naked is not something you enjoy. Not even to take a shower. You’re disgusted after you get out of the shower when you have to look at yourself through the fogged up mirror.
How can you love someone when you can’t love yourself? You’re falling back into your old habits again. Trying not to eat is too hard. Purging is too damaging. Your insides feel broken, your body – intestines, limbs, muscles, everything – feels like it’s disintegrating. No one can help you but yourself. The anxiety you feel projects out into the world, projects onto your loved ones. When you suffer, they suffer. When you’re dying inside, a little piece of them dies as well. But you can’t seem to break this awful habit. You can’t seem to pull yourself out and when others offer you that hand, that leverage to help you out of your own demise, you push them away and fall back. Why? Why do this to yourself? Why can’t it be easy? Easy to love yourself, your body, appreciate you the way that others do. Why is it so hard for you to be happy? Why is it so hard for you to let go?
Why do I do this to myself.

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