How ironic...

I just looked up the meaning of my name and it means "the strong/powerful and healthy one".
Isn't this ironic? So why do I have to deal with all this shit?
I am the healthy one!!!
HELLOOO?!?!? So why don't you just take all this away from me?!


If I die, check my blog. You'll learn everything.

The girl...

The girl who always looks sad but claims she's fine.
The girl who when she sees you, smiles half a smile.
The girl who always has time to listen to you and will try to help you.
The girl who cares about helping everyone but herself.
The girl who cries every night before going to sleep.
The girl who pretends she's okay while she's dying inside.
This is the girl who is soon to be gone.

Did you ever think as a hearse goes by, that you may be the next to die?


My dog had a cut on his paw.

So blood on the floor in the bathroom won't be suspicious.
Good for me.


Officially fat!


And I will never be...


Hold me tight to save me from what might happen.

Drawing lines.

Drawing a line under something and getting over it, that's the common advice.
Nobody says where to draw this line. It just says that it has to be there, somewhere.
Nobody says what to draw this line with but I guess it's not a pencil.
A pencil's easy to erase, a line under something has to be forever. It's something that should last. A felt pen doesn't seem to be right either, it might extrude, so you might fear to draw a line under things that lie under the actual thing, to draw a line under things you didn't want to draw a line under. That's confusing.
But even though it's confusing, I draw lines under things a lot.
On the underside of my forearm with a razor.
Red, wide lines that remind me of what was and what is, of what I should forget and what I will never be able to forget.


I'm staring at her; she's staring back at me. We're folding our arms in front of our breasts, our eyes are changing into narrow slits, our glazes are sweeping over each other, the shoulders, the arms, the stomach, the hips, the legs. Everything we see is recorded in the shortest time, everything is categorized into "flaw" and "excellence", from head to toe.
My list of flaws increases really fast and I can see in the evil sparkle of her eyes that it's similar to her list. We keep silent. We're holding out for each others reaction, lurking, watching.
She's wetting her lips, baring her teeth, a gloatingly smile's appearing on her face, while she shrugs her shoulder, throws her hair back and says with a sigh: "You've become really fat. What went wrong?"
While her words are searching her way into my ear and my mind, the fake sympathy is seeping  in my brain and avoids its correct function. I spit into her face and in the same moment my fist springs forward directly into her face, this grotesque face, this bitch.
An acute pain is dragging from my knuckles to my elbow and onward into my shoulder.
My heartbeat is booming in my ears while I hear the mirror splitting, a dull crack as it falls down to the ground.
I'm wiping the cold sweat from my forehead, drawing cords of blood on my cheek.
I'm taking one step back before I let myself fall down on the floor, gorge the arms around my tightened knees and cry, cry, cry.

Have a break. A break from life.

Being struck by a train.
Jumping off a bridge.
Laying down on the railtracks.
Injecting any kind of stuff like alcohol, fluid, lidocain.
Taking Aspirin and cutting my wrist.
Swallowing all the pills I have.

It doesn't matter how, it just has to end soon.


I guess the first step to losing yourself in your disease...

... is the idealization of death.
If someone told me, "You know you could die from this, right?" I would sit there and stare at them for a long while. 
Yes - I know I could die from this - but isn't that what I want?
To slowly but surely shrink, crumble, and float away?
I used to be so afraid of dying, of death.
But the more I think of it, the nicer it sounds.
Death. Freedom. It's synonymous in my head.


Nobody notices...

Nobody notices me falling apart.
Nobody notices me standing on the edge.
Nobody notices that this fat ugly girl is worrying about every single bite.
Nobody notices until it really happens.

Every step that I take is another mistake to you!

I'm tired of being what you want me to be
Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface.
I don't know what you're expecting of me
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes....

I've become so numb, I can't feel you there,
Become so tired, so much more aware.
I'm becoming this all I want to do,
Is be more like me and be less like you.



I want this to be played at my funeral.

And after that song, I want people to dance and have fun.
I don't want them to be sad that I left.
I want them to know that I am so much better where I'll be then.

I want them to know that I'll be there
even when I'm gone.

Excuse me, what level of hell is this?

Now you're back there, on your own again.
Now you're here again, with me, your demons inside your head.

Today my friend, living at my house, left for the weekend or maybe 3 or 4 days.
When she was  here, she gave me so much confidence, she was there for me even though she doesn't know about my problem. I just felt kinda safe with her.
And now that she's gone, I feel so insecure and I have the feeling of being all alone again, totally lost, slowly going mad.
Can't sleep, thinkin' of all the "bad things" again.
Thinking of death, cutting, my eating habits.
Thinking of how FAT I've become.
Thinking of all the ways I could end it all.

It's getting hard again.
Please let me end it all.

I've been sitting in my room lately, in the last few days, at night, with all the things with which I could just end it all.

Right now I am just wasting time, I am just waiting for it to happen.


Awkward moment when you're sneaking out of your own room to cut.

A friend's staying at my house at the moment.
I so had the urge to cut, during whole day, during the last days already.
And now that she's asleep, I have the time to.
It's kinda strange, sneaking out of your room just to cut.
Usually I never left my room for that. My room was my safe place.
But now it's different. Since she's there, I don't really have an own room, a place for myself.
So this was my only chance today.

So I think I stopped trying...


You tell me you see that I don't feel well...

But you don't know anything about how I REALLY feel.

You don't see the sadness, the fear, the desire for death.

You know nothing about me!


If she had wings she would fly away
And another day God will give her some...