three-hundred & forty-two.
"Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it just hurts instead."
It's nearly 3:30am, I'm fucking exhausted and my left hand is still stiff in various places while my right hand is slowly reaching the same state. And I wanted to write about this hours ago, but it slipped my mind.
In a nutshell, I've been getting headaches every night, my anxiety has been acting up hardcore, and my depression has kicked back in. Obviously my brain and stomach figure food is the best way to solve my problems, so I buy a Coke and a can of Pringles thinking I'll feel better after. I don't. Because I don't eat very often anymore, when I do end up eating, I feel like the biggest pig on the fucking planet. I had a footlong Subway sandwich last week, and wanted to cry.
Food and depression come in a vicious cycle. You eat because you're depressed. You're depressed because you eat. Rinse, repeat. It's tiring. I certainly don't look fat -- in fact, my favourite yoga pants have been slipping down my hips more as of late. But I feel it. I've stopped looking in the mirror and hating my face, which I suppose is a big improvement, but I despise my body so much that I've considered anorexia as a potential option for weight loss. A few times over the last years, I've considered drugs.
And it sickens me.
I'm tired of not liking myself. I'm tired of being too tired to exercise. I'm tired of the anxiety, the paranoia, the wanting to drink myself dizzy, the feelings of inadequacy. Of wanting change, but being so low on energy that I can't do anything. Tired of wanting what other people have, knowing I'll never have it. Tired of money. Tired of selfishness, hypocrisy, and fighting. Tired of comparing myself to everyone.
Tired of me.
The other day, I wondered what it would be like to drown myself.