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Stop glamourizing, stop joking about, stop taking eating disoreders lightly.

Anorexia, bulimia, ednos, and disordered eating are nothing to laugh about or long for.

This seems like an almost overdone blog post, but I am so passionate about it.

To the jerks who laugh at eating disorders:

I wish you knew what it was like to see food and want to have it like every other human being seems capable of doing, but instead having a panic attack because it will make you fat. And spending so much valuable time hiding out in social situations so that you can avoid food. Because to you becoming fat has become the worst thing a person can be. Because you’ve convinced yourself that unless you are slim, small, and dainty you are unwwrothy of love. That you are ugly, and no one could care for an ugly thing. That you must look perfect, and perfect is somewhere near invisible. I wish you knew what that felt like. What it’s like to cry on every holiday because you can’t eat the meals, let alone your favourite desserts from when you were a kid. What it’s like to hear your friends poke at your eating habits, and have to laugh along, like there was nothing wrong. What it’s like to have food eat you alive, without actually ever putting it into your body.

To those who claim to want an eating disorder, here’s what it actually looks like:

It’s social solitude. Missing out on almost every social ocassion, either because there will be food, or because you need to exercise more. It’s convincing yourself that you can go without food for five days, and still workout for four hours each one of those days. It’s always feeling dizzy, and weak, and sick to your stomach. It’s terrible stomach pains, because your stomach needs food. It’s shoving your hands onto your stomach, so hard, it hurts, but it numbs your hunger pains. It’s having thick luscious, long hair, and then not anymore. Instead your ponytail is half as thick as it used to be, it’s brittle and breaks. You have bald spots that you hide with headbands. Clumps of hair fall out when you brush it. It’s running for miles on an empty stomach, and fainting when you get home. Just to regain consciousness to faint again. It’s looking in the mirror many times a day and poking and prodding at every inch of fat on your body. It’s having your legs feel like Jello, and your eyes looking hollow. You bruise so easily, that even hugging someone can cause a spot on your hip bones, and it hurts so bad to be touched. And not because of the bruises. It hurts because in your mind they are not hugging you, they are hugging your fat, and you hate them for it. It’s shying away from any physical contact, because it makes you so anxious, and sad, it’s having anxiety attacks caused by hugs. It’s refusing to wear jeans because you can’t fit into ‘that’ size yet. It’s weighing yourself twice a day everyday, and lashing out on your body when the number hasn’t dropped. It’s hiding caffeine pills, laxatives, and food journals in your room. It’s monitoring every bite you eat, and memorizing the calorie content of every food product imaginable. It’s running, biking, walking, strength training, and doing yoga every day, without fail. It’s letting your grades slip because working out is more important than school. It’s losing almost all your friends because you can’t hangout with them, because what if they want food? It’s rejecting every offer to spend the night at a friends house because they’ll know you skipped all three meals. It’s sneaking away to pharmacies to buy slimming vitamins and diet pills and hoping, praying they don’t ID you, because you’re no where near age. It’s not eating and bloating up and hating yourself even more. It’s crying and sweating and it’s exhastung. It’s your mind always in a fog, even on the rare occasion you pick school over exercise you can’t read. You lack the ability to stay awake as much as a normal person, and every word people say to you goes right over your head. Walking is an exhausting task, because your body is eating at itself. You have to think about simple things like that, forcing, slowly, one foot in front of the other. It’s getting weird fuzzy hair all over your body because it’s trying to keep you warm. You’re never warm. It’s shaking constantly from cold, even in the middle of the summer. A cold that seeps through your bones and makes you want to die. It’s never ever eating out, not even for special occasions. And on the rare ocasion you’re forced to eat something you don’t want, it’s rushing to the bathroom to puke it up. It’s choking on your own finger, vomit, and spit, to rid your body of the poison, the food. It’s puking through your nose, and not stopping. It’s not stopping. Not stopping when you’ve thrown up all the food, not when you’ve thrown up all the water, not when you’ve thrown up your stomach bile, not when you’re throwing up blood. It’s not stopping until you physically cannot get anything else out, and crumbling onto the floor in tears. It’s hating yourself, every inch of your body. But more than that it’s hating who you’ve become, and the things you do, the lies you tell, the secrets you keep, the torture you’re putting yourself through. It’s living every minute, every second, with a voice that tells you you’re not good enough, and you listen to it. You listen to it until you lose everything

You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.
(via bratsquad)
I cannot promise you that you will ever be happy.
Some days, you will wake up for no apparent reason. You’ll wish you hadn’t.
Other days, you’ll trace your battle scars with your fingers,
wishing they were blades, matches, razors, cigarettes instead.
You will still use your heart as your personal ashtray,
extinguishing the boys who mean nothing.
Living is hard. Did no one tell you?
Life is messy, but not as messy as you at 3 in the morning
black out drunk, stumbling for your keys and self-esteem.
I cannot promise you that you will ever be happy.
But some days, you’ll wake up smiling, snuggling into his collarbone
and thank whatever god you praise that you did.
Other days, you’ll trace the smile lines on your grandmother’s face,
counting the ones that belong solely to you.
You will feel your heart beat like a drum against your chest, begging to be freed.
He means everything.
Life is still messy, but never as messy as poising your soul with drugs or sticking the barrel of your personal gun down your throat.
Michelle K., Promises I Can’t Keep. (via michellekpoems)
first date: show me all your flaws, i’ll show you mine. reveal your scars, i’ll reveal mine. tell me what aches you and i’ll tell you mine.
Scottie Waves (via kushandwizdom)
You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.

(via bratsquad)

I really needed to hear that right now.

(via iambrokenby-you)


A Day To Remember - If It Means a Lot To You


A Day To Remember - If It Means a Lot To You


Being a nice person is so fun

Waiter messes something up? You can see the relief on their faces when you don’t scream and swear at them about it

Extra tickets at an arcade/prize place? Watch a little kid’s face light up when you give them a bunch of tickets

There are too many assholes in this world. Be a nice person.