Letters Between Sundays

I don’t know why I can’t do what I need to do to survive, even if it’s hurting me.
I know it’s not good. I know I’m hurting myself. I know.

But can’t you see I’m just trying to stay alive?

You think differently. You think getting better is the number on the scale going up, not developing more scars on my wrists and thighs, not having a six pack every night.

What if I don’t want to get better?
What if I want to be skin and bones with black bags under my eyes?
Wearing long sleeves in the burning heat of summer, not remembering my days or my nights?

What if I’m not addicted to cutting and drinking and being thin…
what if I’m addicted to being a mess?

Letting the outside look like the inside.

They say your room looks like your mind.
What if I take that same mindset and let my body look like it’s deteriorating?

My mind is already mush, fogged by bipolar and malnutrition.
Maybe if it shows physically, it will finally feel real.
Like my thoughts have a purpose.

Maybe if I have dry blood on the inside of my clothes, I can finally see the emotions I can’t explain.
Maybe if the number on the scale drops low enough, I’ll finally feel worthy.

Worthy of having these thoughts.
Worthy of being like this.

Maybe if I drown everything with something sweet, I can feel the sadness rise up just enough to almost spill over.

What if it’s okay not to be okay?
What if it’s okay to finally give up?

Not having to be perfect.
Not having to be tired every day from fighting your own mind.

I’ve always known my worst enemy is me.

So what if I let her win?

What if I let it take over—
controlling everything I consume and everything I throw up,
whether that’s food or words.

Why can’t I feel worthy without my head in a toilet, my legs burning in the shower?

Why can’t I feel happiness unless I’m on cloud nine with no sleep in my veins?

Why can’t my mind be clear without empty bottles on the table?

Why is it that I either fight myself and be miserable,
or let the darkness take over and still be miserable—
just with something to numb it?

Why can’t my mind be blank?
My canvas be white?

What if I had a loving family who didn’t hurt me as a child?
What if I didn’t bury my face in the freezer trying to numb the burns she left?
What if I wore pink shirts with daisies on them instead of skipping past that version of myself?

Maybe in order for any of this to make sense…

what if the answer is addiction?

because no matter how I try to solve myself, it’s the only thing that makes the equation work.