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#1 Angst

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Posted 07 September 2014 - 02:48 PM

I'll post more in this thread, mostly just short prose.

 

 

I sort of write... a lot. About eating disorders. It always kind of sucks and is a little... abstract, I guess. I wanted to share for a while but I'm so paranoid people will recognise me - nevertheless, here is something that was meant to be an intro for a story, but I scrapped it and now it's just a half completed standalone. Opinions would be nice, maybe make me look like less of a loser aha

 

TW for binging
 
 

"You sure you’re okay?"
 
He can’t see the pack of store brand cakes at your side, over the phone and miles away, and all you can say is -
 
"Yeah, I’m sure. Just tired," because that’s the old age excuse everyone knows is a lie but pretends isn’t in the name of some aged etiquette or other. It’s the unsatisfied wives, the bullied children, the debt-ridden student. And it’s you, twenty five with chattering teeth and a deep, empty longing blooming inside you, feeding on the curve of your stomach and the softness of your skin.
 
Milky, soft, pliable skin, water tension over an ocean of fat. It’s delicate, like a cut could spill your bowels, and it feels like pure, unadulterated weakness. Vulnerable and fleshy, fallen fruit from Eden.
 
"Would I lie to you?"
 
And he sighs down the phone, as if the concept is so unbelievable. Your hands curl at the plastic packaging, and you wish it wasn’t such a harsh truth, wish you could live for just a minute as the person you are in his eyes. 
 
You hang up and a crinkle alerts you the package has made its way to your lap, like it’s a temptation and not an inevitability. It’s frustratingly white, clinical, even, And you rip off the plastic covering with ease, feeling the modern miracle screwed up in your fist.
 
Not hungry, but you’ll eat it anyway. You always do. Stomach sore and red and knuckles itching for a cut, you can always eat more. Always make room for the precious gift of food. Even store brand fairy cakes with white icing, mouth watering and utterly repulsive all at once.
 
They don’t smell like anything, they never do, but you’re taking a bite before you think about it too much. You would have done this, anyway. No matter how long you thought about it. But it’s better to pretend it’s not happening and that there aren’t five more packets in the cupboard, six more in the car in case someone comes round and thinks to look.
 
You’re fine. You recovered. It’s nice to revisit old habits though, right? Like giving up alcohol and having a drink every few months with friends to celebrate something. You don’t need it, but it’s nice to have. It’s about portion control. You would know. But the others wouldn’t, wouldn’t understand, and there’s a coat thrown over the shopping bag in the car, in case someone checks. It’s not clear why someone would, but it’s not paranoia because you know you’re doing something wrong. It’s just a precaution, a safety net. Your therapist said it’s good to have those sometimes.
 
Just what the doctor ordered, and it’s cake number three and it tastes like nothing but nostalgia, dry and familiar and you almost choke on the crumbs, on the stiff, unappetizing icing. The packet protests from the pressure of your hand, nails digging through the flimsy material, and you drop it to the floor. The first of many, and you won’t count. 
 
You won’t.
 
A bolt of inexplicable terror and you get faster, swallowing and swallowing sickeningly plain cake that scratches the sides of your throat, pressing against them in pieces free from saliva, clumps choking you, warning you off. Tastes like blood, and at least that’s something more than stale chemicals and a clawing, sudden realisation that the empty in your stomach, the void at the end of your throat, can’t be filled; won’t be filled.
 
But it’s too late to stop now.
 
 
~~~~~~~~~
my nerves are through the roof right now

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#2 Guest_Moro_*

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Posted 07 September 2014 - 02:55 PM

you shouldn't be nervous. this is fantastic. i love it, i really do. it'd be cool if you wrote more and posted it! :)


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#3 ILiveToMosh

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Posted 07 September 2014 - 11:49 PM

Ok, so, this was serious the best thing I have read in a LONG, LONG time.

And, I am an actor, so I read it with feeling, and it was pretty damn good for a cold-read, if I do say so myself. And I do. But, it wasn't me. It's the piece. You're wonderful. I love you. Yes, more. I do think the people have spoken. <3


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Des

22

stuff 

Spoiler

#4 ILiveToMosh

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Posted 07 September 2014 - 11:49 PM

^ Seriously* <3


Des

22

stuff 

Spoiler

#5 Angst

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Posted 24 September 2014 - 03:19 PM

Uh, so I wrote this one in 2012 when I was at my worst, probably. I think. It's kind of awkward to read, but I like it for one of my older pieces. I don't really expect anyone to be around this thread anymore aha ><

 

and

 

1

2

3

4

 

it starts with 1,200 and 1,500 feels like an accomplishment, honestly. Honestly. Only over by 300. Only. Then February and 1,200 and it can be a struggle but you do it in the end because it’s only 1,200 and that’s low and high at the same time, depending on the tense. I guess. So it’s March and 1000 looks easy enough and those girls with the thigh gaps like you wouldn’t believe are telling you that, yeah, 1000 is doable. 1000 will help you lose weight. 1000 is where you want to go and who you want to be and that girl, the one you hold so dear, she could only dream of 1000. 

 

So it’s 1000 and then you break up with him because, well, he never believed you anyway (right? right.) and it’s not worth the fight. You drag yourself under. Or something like that, and then it’s that other guy, the one with the same jean size as you, and he counts along with you except he’s 3,500 and 3 protein bars and he doesn’t mind when you come over to his house and don’t eat his food and he insists ‘not fat’ and it never even crossed your mind to believe him. People lie.

 

Especially you.

 

You can’t remember where it ended but suddenly it’s 500. August to October. 500. 102lb. But it was those pills as well, the ones that made the walls crawl, and it was sitting in a cold french room smiling ruthlessly at two blonde girls with the same name and explaining to them ‘oh, no one really likes me' and 'he really hates me' and 'no, no - it’s j’adore’  with that smile cranked up 200 degrees like anyone ever thought it was fake, anyway? (Is it?)

 

It could just be in your head.

 

Whatever. The blank hall wall that’s a sickly yellow and 'no mum im fine' and the 3am drinking just because. Then - 600, 700, 800, 900? 1000 makes you cry (four whole numbers) and it’s all you can do to throw it up or sweat it off and it’s still. You know. Whatever. They don’t ask and you don’t say. It’s, uh. It’s not an eating disorder. Disorder is a lack of order, and everything is in perfect ship shape though you haven’t eaten over 500 in months. It’s fine. Everything’s okay. It’s just a bit cold and lonely and it’s not like the headaches mean anything. 

 

You escaped the pills and you can escape this, too. Vices. Not real, everyone reminds you. Caffeine isn’t dangerous. You write about a boy called Kelly and crack his skull in. He looks a lot like the people who told you caffeine wouldn’t hurt you. Couldn’t. It hurt more to leave it, you guess. It was comfortable.

 

Except. You can’t. It’s there behind you, in your spine, curling between your vertebrae and nestling in the gaps of your ribcage. It’s you. It’s in your brain cells and body cells, encoded in DNA and immune to mutations. Constant, touchstone, stable. Somewhere along the line it stopped being ‘last month’ or ‘next month’ but ‘today’ and ‘now’ and ‘every single time I eat’ and it’s control, perfect control, and it’s how it’s you but not you anymore, who has that control. Who calls the shots.

 

You can’t escape this, either.


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#6 strength-in-surviving

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Posted 24 September 2014 - 04:13 PM

These are so beautifully written. 


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ethical vegan, mostly hclf

in recovery
maintaining @~17
stable & healthy

 


 


#7 Angst

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Posted 24 September 2014 - 05:52 PM

These are so beautifully written. 

 

thank you so much


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#8 Angst

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Posted 09 November 2014 - 06:20 PM

An incomplete draft of a band fic ED. I don't know, I felt like posting something, I guess
 
--
 
deleted bc insecure

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#9 gentlemantis

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Posted 23 November 2014 - 11:58 PM

Sorry to drop in a bit late--just wanted to say that I think you're a really talented writer. I think it's cool how it's fiction and sounds a bit like poetry at the same time. The words flow together nicely if that makes any sense. In any case, I enjoyed reading. :)


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#10 Angst

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Posted 24 November 2014 - 01:21 PM

Sorry to drop in a bit late--just wanted to say that I think you're a really talented writer. I think it's cool how it's fiction and sounds a bit like poetry at the same time. The words flow together nicely if that makes any sense. In any case, I enjoyed reading. :)

 

Thank you so much! Honestly means a lot  :wub:


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#11 MondaysWorth131313

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Posted 24 November 2014 - 06:31 PM

For just a moment, I wasn't alone in my suffering.

So not only must I tell you how incredible your writing style is and how accurately you put emotions into words, but I also must thank you.

Please, never stop writing.

 

xx,

Mel


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130

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HW: 132

LW: 96

CW: 127.4

 

 

Inside My Head.

 

No Binge November

Green: Pass Red: Fail

21/22/23/24/25/26/27/28

29/30


#12 Guest_Paranoia_*

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Posted 26 November 2014 - 04:07 AM

That was amazing!


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#13 illustrated

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Posted 26 November 2014 - 12:17 PM

These are truly great. Keep posting!


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#14 Angst

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Posted 26 November 2014 - 02:27 PM

For just a moment, I wasn't alone in my suffering.

So not only must I tell you how incredible your writing style is and how accurately you put emotions into words, but I also must thank you.

Please, never stop writing.

 

xx,

Mel

 

 

That was amazing!

 

 

These are truly great. Keep posting!

 

Ahh this means so much!!!! Thank you all so much  :wub:  :wub:  I'm so happy you all like it aha


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#15 Angst

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Posted 30 November 2014 - 10:07 AM

This isn't about ED's for once, more about suicide. It's pretty old. Hm, if you're reading this - enjoy, I guess?

“You feel very sad. You don’t know if you can make it through today, let alone any other day. You’re going to leave this place, and on your way home you’re going to pick up a bottle of vodka and two packets of pills. You’re not dumb, though. You’ll buy the alcohol separately, and you may even buy the pills the same. You are no idiot. The man behind the counter feels bad for you as you buy the alcohol. He sees the bags under your eyes and the way stare downwards, mumbling your thanks. He sees the tremble of your hands and he doesn’t say anything because he can not. He is not part of your life. He waves you off as an alcoholic, as a wash up, and forgets you within the hour. He’s seen a lot of people like you today. Isn’t that sad? But it’s not. It’s reality.

“The woman behind the pharmacy counter doesn’t feel anything as she hands you over the pills. She thinks ‘headache or stomach ache’ and chooses headache because you tilt yourself away from the light like it burns you and she has to prompt you to take your change because you were staring off into what she thought was your thoughts. It was the void. She doesn’t notice the bag already hanging from your hand, and she doesn’t hear the clink of a glass bottle as it knocks against the door on the way out. Little blessings.

“Possibly, you buy the second box from a supermarket. You use self checkout to avoid the stares of the staff, yet you catch the attention of a young teen. He sees you, thin as a rail and as haggard as the word, and is struck with jealously. He’s been dieting for six months, you see, down to 55kg; a BMI of 17.5. He’s not been diagnosed yet, but tomorrow his sister will catch him purging to the thoughts of your sunken form and she’ll ask mummy why big brother was being sick when he wasn’t ill. She’ll cry, probably, but you’ll carry on because you never knew it happened. It may never happen, you might have bought both packets from the pharmacy; then the woman serving you there would frown as you paid and wonder why you need so much paracetamol. She isn’t so sure it’s a headache - but what can she do?

Why, what could anyone do?

“So, you drive back to your home in a car that isn’t yours. It’s your mums. She’s out, this weekend, visiting friends. Getting away from the oppressing feel to her house that is you. She resents you being a wash up, a fuck up. She resents you staying at her house and you know that but you’re so very scared of the cold embrace of the streets. Tomorrow she’ll come home and she’ll cry, and she’ll feel guilty for every thought she ever had against you. So you hide in your room in her house and you wrap yourself in covers you never sleep in and listen to those obscure bands that make you think of the cigarettes of university. You sing along, sometimes, ‘if I sold my soul, for a bag of gold, to you, which one of us would be the foolish one?’ and you sound so very sick and lonely. You wish you had a talent and you sink deeper into yourself.

“You get home and you unlock door, trembling hands struggling to maneuver the simple handle. Your next door neighbour peeks out the window at the noise and sees you, bent in on yourself and struggling with the handle. She thinks ‘drunk again’ and ducks away. She remembers the time you threw a brick at her house when you were seventeen and she scowls. Nothing but trouble, she thinks, the world would be better without men like him. She’ll eat her words (thoughts?), the day after tomorrow, when the ambulance outside her house is finally explained by a crying ex-mother. She’ll kill herself, a year from today, because she never tried to talk to your mother about you. Your mother is in a hospital, in a year, and your neighbour’s in the morgue.

“You’re upstairs, now. The bottle of vodka sits patiently at your side as, for the last time, you log into your blog. You open a new entry, and with numerous spelling mistakes and breaks, write your last entry. ‘I’m leaving for a while, guys. Probably won’t be any blog updates for a very long time. I hope I won’t see any of you soon, you’re too lovely to go where I am to. God bless. God damn.’ and you log out (for the last time) and sit on your bed. You push each pill from it’s tray and you stare at them like it’s everything.”

He pauses, leaning back in his chair and stares you in the eyes.

“Now,” he says softly “Are they?”


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#16 Angst

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Posted 21 December 2014 - 04:26 PM

I think this is the only piece of writing that I've written in the last year that I even like tbh. Got called 'pretentious' for it though ugh. Idk. 

 

______________


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#17 Guest_papersnow_*

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Posted 21 December 2014 - 08:55 PM

Your writing is moving. I'd buy a book from you based on these excerpts alone.



#18 Charlotte R.

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Posted 21 December 2014 - 10:56 PM

I realy like it but you should write it in first persona, the story will be better. Change all the yous

Charlotte

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#19 Angst

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Posted 22 December 2014 - 08:11 AM

Your writing is moving. I'd buy a book from you based on these excerpts alone.

 

Thank you, that means a lot  :wub:


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#20 Angst

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Posted 22 December 2014 - 08:12 AM

I realy like it but you should write it in first persona, the story will be better. Change all the yous

Charlotte

 

That's personal preference I'm afraid, I don't like first person; I feel like third and second person achieve more of the feeling I'm going for. Thank you, though


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