Madness is defined as the state of being mentally ill, esp. severely and extremely foolish behavior. Madness is waking crying, pulling out your hair, throwing a fresh bowl of pasta in garbage because your workout that night wasn't good enough. Madness is skipping school, smoking cigarette after cigarette trying to decide if you want to be recovered, if you want to be well.
Madness is leaving everyone; detaching yourself from society because you're not good enough. You see whispering and think it's about you; you hear voices of insecurity in your head about who you are, how you look. You are mad. You miss dangerously fast pounding of your heart, waiting to explode out of your chest. Hating yourself, in a way is madness. How can you of all people hate yourself? You do not understand this.
You yell at the mirror, throwing something at it breaking it, "You're pathetic and ugly and gross. Nobody likes you. Faggot. God hates faggots." You cry. The glass falls out of the mirror, you don't have to see yourself now; seven years of bad luck, but it doesn't matter because when you've been this low you do not need luck, nor have you ever had it. This is madness.
Now, an hour later you go to the kitchen, anxious as hell, fill a bowl of something - any food. You take small bites. You hate it but you need to eat - you're a bodybuilder. Bodybuilding for me is a way to recover; it forces me to eat, trading the obsession of thinness for muscle. I need to eat now.
Madness is leaving everyone; detaching yourself from society because you're not good enough. You see whispering and think it's about you; you hear voices of insecurity in your head about who you are, how you look. You are mad. You miss dangerously fast pounding of your heart, waiting to explode out of your chest. Hating yourself, in a way is madness. How can you of all people hate yourself? You do not understand this.
You yell at the mirror, throwing something at it breaking it, "You're pathetic and ugly and gross. Nobody likes you. Faggot. God hates faggots." You cry. The glass falls out of the mirror, you don't have to see yourself now; seven years of bad luck, but it doesn't matter because when you've been this low you do not need luck, nor have you ever had it. This is madness.
Now, an hour later you go to the kitchen, anxious as hell, fill a bowl of something - any food. You take small bites. You hate it but you need to eat - you're a bodybuilder. Bodybuilding for me is a way to recover; it forces me to eat, trading the obsession of thinness for muscle. I need to eat now.
No comments:
Post a Comment