Hunger.

In dating and in dieting, I’ve always starved or binged.
I’ve always gone all in or been paralysed by indecision.
And I’ve always cared so much about others, that I forget to love myself.
After this most recent fast, I don’t want to calorie count my feelings anymore.

I have never felt more pressure to take the all-or-nothing binge-purge route than right now.
I was just dumped for struggling with mental illness.
And I get it. I’m struggling. Massively.
But now, the expectations I have for myself to ‘get over it’ quickly are extreme, unrealistic and unattainable.

Ever the perfectionist, I’ve still set them.
I aim to be a size zero in caring about exes.
Yeah, right.

At the moment, nights alone are toxic.
Thoughts circulate, then deeply embed. The rumination is exhausting.

How can I be vulnerable again? How can I allow myself to start again when I am so fundamentally flawed? Especially when these flaws were oh so recently held against me?

Madness is a hungry heart with no hope of satiety.

In my rational mind, I know that crash-dieting doesn’t work in any form.
You can’t take a ketogenic road to good mood and mental wellness.
You can’t weigh yourself each morning and see progress as to how ‘over’ someone you are.
But I am frustrated. I am impatient. I am so sick of feeling so fucking sad.
If I could lipo the love out of my heart, I’d be straight to the back-alley butcher.
I want to see results. Now.

When I’m heartbroken, I lose all appetite.
When I’m in a relationship, I get fat and happy.
Safe to say, I’m back to my skinny, skittish self.

I really do wish I wasn’t so black and white.
I’m too much for a lot of people.
I often feel like I need to water myself down, rinse out my loaded paintbrush heart.
Cutting myself slack is just not something I am good at.

Frankly, black and white is comforting.
I’m scared I’ll lose my sharp, defined self if let the grey in.
I have joked so many times that I’ll be less funny or witty, if I start to develop any sense of worth.
But after years of self-deprecation, maybe it’s time to allow it.
Time to let a slight watercolour of vulnerability bleed into my paper-doll self.
Try to consider that it won’t ruin the portrait of perfect I’m painting.

These are nutrients I need to absorb:
I need to learn that I don’t have to haemorrhage to feel.
I need to actually believe that I have more self-care options, not just hurting and hating myself.
I need to acknowledge that if I don’t do this soon, it’s my own fault.

Fuck, I’m so hungry for happiness.
I just hope it’s worth the calories.

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