Dead at 63, Robin Wiilliams

I remember when you told me I was innocent.
You see to you there was a difference of definition:
Innocence was whether or not you had smoked a joint or had your first beer or bloodied your knuckles on a brick wall.

But for me innocence was when I still loved myself. It was being able to look in the mirror and not hate your reflection. It was being able to go through a day without thoughts of wanting to die. It was days without depression or anxiety attacks.
For you innocence was physical but for me it was mental.

Because all I know is at 11 I was already making meals out of pain killers and diet coke.

By 12 I had become a statistic. I was that 1 in 50 you hear about in pamphlets and health classes. That’s a lonely number.

At 13 little lines started showing up. I don’t know why I started don’t ask me. I didn’t think they were beautiful. I never will. I don’t know why they had to yell at me about it. I didn’t make a mess. At least I wasn’t throwing up my food while my family was there for Thanksgiving. Now I’m 1 in 5.
They were just a little red.
I hate the color red now.

By 14 I met someone who was worse then me. She had lost down to 80 in a month and a half. And while I should have been thanking God I didn’t go that far, I was thinking to my self why I wasn’t good enough to have a BMI lower than 16.5.

15. Who is God and why don’t I hear from him anymore? I think he’s given up on me. He’s let everyone else leave. It would only make since if he did too. Maybe it’s because I have too many demons to fight. If that’s the case then I’m sorry. I love you but…
Maybe it’s for the best.

Statistics (via w0ndering-not-lost)

(Source: ghost-cuddles, via reinventingmysoul)


I am ten years old. My favorite game to play is Outdoor Survival. Teachers write on my report card that I work well independently, but not with others.

At home, I tear flowers from my mothers garden. Make salad from roots and stems, perfume from plucked petals. Bathe in the sewer. Remember- you are cleaner than the water that comforts you.

Take off the dogs collar. Call her wolf. When your belly mutters, do not go inside. When chopped up dandelions do not quiet the childish whine of hunger, stay outside.

Dig a hole in the dirt beside the porch. Sleep under a heavy blanket of mulch. Wonder if it is piled too high to get out of, but not in a worried way, just a curious way.

Wonder if your mother knows you have left. Assume she is still on the phone with someone who is more important than you.

Looking back, I wonder why survival was my entertainment of choice- if anorexia has always been mutely boiling inside of me. If, even then, there was a reason I mistook my stomachs siren for audience applause. Why I was so proud- I only came inside to brag to my mother,

Look, Mom. Look how little I can get by on! "
WHAT CAME BEFORE THE STARVING, by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

(via firesfade)


queued, ask me to check out your blog x
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