Continuing. . . . .

We as humans are quick to pass critical judgement upon our peers and elders, but we're almost always reluctant to point our fingers at the reflection in the mirror. We're too afraid of what flaws everyone will see through the body paint and blonde highlights. We seek perfection and fall short of it because we fail to realize our flaws are an important part in the humanity that is our closest aspect of perfection.
So I'm here to shatter the mold, to kick in the door of human reluctance. I'm not a scene queen, a blogging whore, or an emo kid; I'm human. and I've stopped fighting that unchangeable fact. No, I'm not the smallest or prettiest girl you'll ever meet, and I probably won't be able to leave you utterly speechless, but I can guarantee I'll leave you thinking. No, I'll never be totally sane, and I will always be sort of melodramatic, but I've accepted that. I have my life's struggles that I deal with every day, and a lot of the time I don't complain about them. But it's my turn to cry about my problems for a moment. You'll get your chance in a little while, I promise.

+ On a daily basis, I have to make myself eat at least one meal a day. I used to be obsessed with shrinking down to little more than skin, bone, and internal organs. I was, and still am, rather critical of my body type, and I was diagnosed with anorexia the fifth time I passed out in three months. My poor diet, or lack thereof, contributed to the development and severity of my hypoglycemia, and it certainly didn't help another condition I'll go into in a moment. My body began eating itself, deteriorating any muscle I had and even picking at my bones. Despite my efforts to correct this disease of mine, it is oftentimes difficult to tear myself out of that mindset. I'm slowly killing myself, but that's okay, right?

+ I have steadily grown worse about the cutting aspect of my self-injury. The relapse began with a tiny cut or two every second or third day, but now it is amounting to an average of maybe fifteen or so every single night. I've stopped attacking my arms because they're always visible at work, choosing to instead wound my stomach and thighs. Even then, the seriousness of each individual cut is growing as well. I truly am slowly killing myself, even worse than I have been these last four years. Because of cutting, though, with my frequent blood loss, I developed anemia, which means I have a low red blood cell count and the red cells I do have aren't carrying as much iron as they should. This is why I'm so pale and cold to the touch.

And surprisingly, I'm not finished, but I am for now.