and in the hole of your stomach, where you wouldn't let me blossom our love alive, there grew a moon –
Posted at 5:23 AM by Min 
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
You know, I used to be someone who strived to do my best in school – now I can't even care less. Not that my grades are showing it, but even good grades don't give me happiness anymore.
Also, I never knew soup + salad could render someone so guilty.
And on another note, fake stick-on acrylic french manicure nails are so TACKY OH MY GOD WHY WOULD YOU EVER please go die in a hole.
Labels: personal
Posted at 8:28 PM by Min
Saturday, December 15, 2012
I'm at my lowest weight ever. I'm not exactly happy, however.
I'm still fat.
On another note, finals are kILLING ME AKDJFHGJKLADF
I'm going to flunk my IOC, I know it omFG
Labels: personal
Posted at 6:12 AM by Min
Thursday, December 13, 2012
The summer of freshman year, I was about to leave my life in Beijing behind and start anew in Shanghai. I was about to leave my best friends behind, the place I had called home for three years. On hindsight, it was also the time where I left me behind.
The summer of freshman year was also the time where I found out that my appearance wasn't up to par with society's standards. I was a size 4, at a height of about 160cm. Not underweight, not overweight, but comfortably in the normal range. But as I reclined on the sofa, a bowl of cereal in hand, I stumbled across a conversation on Windows Messenger between my then-boyfriend and another friend. Apparently my boyfriend had it bad, as he had a girlfriend that had 'fat rolls whenever she sat down'.
I never brought it up with the people involved, but that summer was my trigger. That sentence was what led me down this road. It thoroughly altered my perspective of myself and what I wanted from myself.
It started off with exercising. I started running, started going to gym in an effort to lose weight. I started watching my diet. I stuck to it for a year, but the weight didn't seem to come off quick enough. My relatives would look at me and tell me I should lose a little weight – five pounds, they said. Maybe a couple of kilograms.
So right after I got dumped two days before my birthday in Junior year, I decided to take things into my own hands. If doing it the healthy way didn't work, fine. There's always another way out.
Some people may say that it was my choice to go down this road. But in all honesty, it wasn't. It was my choice to continue going down this road, but the people around me were the ones who put me at the start of the path. Over the past few months I pushed myself past countless boundaries – at first I could only tolerate purging with the aid of a toothbrush. The thought of sticking fingers down my throat always scared and disgusted me.
But as summer of Junior year neared, my fingers became my best friend, and it became multiple times easier to get things up and out. I dropped two dress sizes in a little over a year. I'm a size 0 now, a disgusting 108 pounds, at a height of 164cm. My BMI is 18.2, underweight for my age and height.
But it's really not enough. Eating disorders are a downward spiral on a smooth slide, and there's no way back up. It started off purging when I felt too full for my taste, but now it's at the point where I had purged twice in the span of one dinner – once after the main course, and once after desert. It's at the point where small red dots on my eyelids – capillaries that burst from all the pressure – are a sight that I'm used to. I cover them up with concealer, and I simply forget about them.
On rare days I wake up and I think I'd be able to get through the day without freaking out about food and punishing myself when I cross a boundary. But that day never comes. I go through the hours counting calories and debating if I should go to the bathroom to purge – if I don't, I spend extra time at the gym later that night. I never go to bed full – the hungrier the better.
I don't look like I have an eating disorder. I'm not overly skinny. I still have fat all over me. As long as I can pinch fat, I will keep going. Even if I can't pinch fat, I'll probably still keep going.
There's a reason as to why I'm covered with ink. I don't have the guts to physically punish myself. My tattoos are the cuts I will never be able to bring myself to inflict on my own skin. I've entertained suicidal thoughts – I'm not a coward, I swear. It's the logical way to escape all that's pressing down around me. But I probably won't go through with any of these ideas for the same reason I will never be one to self-harm.
When I sit down and attempt to reevaluate my life, I come up with nothing. All I come up with is unsatisfaction, and when you're not satisfied with something, you need to change it. That's what I'm doing. That's my life's goal. And I won't stop till I get there.
The summer of freshman year was also the time where I found out that my appearance wasn't up to par with society's standards. I was a size 4, at a height of about 160cm. Not underweight, not overweight, but comfortably in the normal range. But as I reclined on the sofa, a bowl of cereal in hand, I stumbled across a conversation on Windows Messenger between my then-boyfriend and another friend. Apparently my boyfriend had it bad, as he had a girlfriend that had 'fat rolls whenever she sat down'.
I never brought it up with the people involved, but that summer was my trigger. That sentence was what led me down this road. It thoroughly altered my perspective of myself and what I wanted from myself.
It started off with exercising. I started running, started going to gym in an effort to lose weight. I started watching my diet. I stuck to it for a year, but the weight didn't seem to come off quick enough. My relatives would look at me and tell me I should lose a little weight – five pounds, they said. Maybe a couple of kilograms.
So right after I got dumped two days before my birthday in Junior year, I decided to take things into my own hands. If doing it the healthy way didn't work, fine. There's always another way out.
Some people may say that it was my choice to go down this road. But in all honesty, it wasn't. It was my choice to continue going down this road, but the people around me were the ones who put me at the start of the path. Over the past few months I pushed myself past countless boundaries – at first I could only tolerate purging with the aid of a toothbrush. The thought of sticking fingers down my throat always scared and disgusted me.
But as summer of Junior year neared, my fingers became my best friend, and it became multiple times easier to get things up and out. I dropped two dress sizes in a little over a year. I'm a size 0 now, a disgusting 108 pounds, at a height of 164cm. My BMI is 18.2, underweight for my age and height.
But it's really not enough. Eating disorders are a downward spiral on a smooth slide, and there's no way back up. It started off purging when I felt too full for my taste, but now it's at the point where I had purged twice in the span of one dinner – once after the main course, and once after desert. It's at the point where small red dots on my eyelids – capillaries that burst from all the pressure – are a sight that I'm used to. I cover them up with concealer, and I simply forget about them.
On rare days I wake up and I think I'd be able to get through the day without freaking out about food and punishing myself when I cross a boundary. But that day never comes. I go through the hours counting calories and debating if I should go to the bathroom to purge – if I don't, I spend extra time at the gym later that night. I never go to bed full – the hungrier the better.
I don't look like I have an eating disorder. I'm not overly skinny. I still have fat all over me. As long as I can pinch fat, I will keep going. Even if I can't pinch fat, I'll probably still keep going.
There's a reason as to why I'm covered with ink. I don't have the guts to physically punish myself. My tattoos are the cuts I will never be able to bring myself to inflict on my own skin. I've entertained suicidal thoughts – I'm not a coward, I swear. It's the logical way to escape all that's pressing down around me. But I probably won't go through with any of these ideas for the same reason I will never be one to self-harm.
When I sit down and attempt to reevaluate my life, I come up with nothing. All I come up with is unsatisfaction, and when you're not satisfied with something, you need to change it. That's what I'm doing. That's my life's goal. And I won't stop till I get there.
I've changed, and for the worse. This disorder has made me extraordinarily skilled at lying – to my mother that I've already eaten. To my friends and teachers that I'm healthy and fine. To myself that this is normal, that I'll be okay in the end. That I'll be skinny and happy in the end.
I'm always tired, always cold, my hair is falling out and my skin isn't as clear as it used to be. Sometimes I wonder if people around me notice these things, notice these signs that I'm not okay, that I need help. I don't want help, but I will admit I need it. I've never been officially diagnosed, and I don't need to be in order to know that I'm already knee deep in this disorder.
Whenever my mother cooks (which is rare as she's never home) or whenever my friends make something for me, it hurts whenever I throw it back up. I don't deserve people like that in my life, and despite knowing that, nothing really changes. Eating is such a weakness. Even the healthiest things imaginable are a step backwards from my goal.
This disease is captivating. It sucks you in like fairy tale. It promises thigh gaps and ribs and protruding collarbones. Hipbones and the outline of each vertebrae when you bend over. It glorifies death. It's also exhausting. It consumes you and it will never let you go no matter how resistant you might end up becoming to it. It starts like an innocent roller-coaster ride. You take a seat, fasten your seat belt, and as the roller-coaster reaches the peak, you're taken down the steep, steep slope with no way to stop and reverse. You can't let go of the bar or unstrap yourself – the mere idea of letting is terrifying. It has you, it holds you, and you cannot let go.
It breaks you.
I am broken, and it takes a long to piece back a broken person. I am not ashamed that I have this disease. It is part of me, and whatever is part of me, I will not be ashamed of. I will continue to wake up everyday and check to see that my hipbones are still there, that my collarbones are sharp. I will go through school as best as I can, and face my mother with as much normalcy as I can. It's the only thing I know how to do anymore, and I owe it to myself to do that well.
This is not a sob story – I don't want pity. I can keep fighting and I will. It's not my wish to be stuck with this disorder for the rest of my life, but how long it'll stay with me for, I will never know. Sometimes though, it's as though I've been strong for so long, and I just need someone to let me be weak.
Labels: personal
Posted at 5:12 AM by Min
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
So apparently writing something about something personal can be subjected to criticism and even a full-frontal attack on the person. Well that's new information to me.
It's just, I understand if you want to criticize my work and/or my writing style, but attacking me where it hurts most is just so offensive. The mere act of suggesting that I promote EDs is close to traumatizing – I would never wish it on my biggest enemy. It's not something anyone should experience.
It's such a shallow and desperate move, especially saying things like that behind an anonymous mask. You're a coward that's what you are. I hope you die a slow death.
Posted at 12:01 AM by Min
Sunday, December 9, 2012
I'm sure everyone has had that one moment where they wished they were a character in a story.
Even the most depressing stories have characters that are perfect in their own ways. Unlike us.
I want to be able to find myself as easily as characters find themselves. They don't have to worry about it – the author does. Sooner or later, before the last page is flipped, they'll find themselves. They find their dreams, ambitions, friendship and love through a mere 500 pages. Yet some of us go through 100 years without coming close.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if each of us only had 7 days to live.
Labels: personal
Posted at 3:50 AM by Min
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
These past few days have been a hormonal rollercoaster.
Or maybe it's just been the most glaring view/aspect of my life I have yet to see up till then.
It was one of those days where you've reached a point in life where there're just so many negative things bombarding you from every direction that you simply don't care anymore.
I legitimately sat back and thought no, I'm not going to do this.
Some people say suicide is the cowardly way out – to me, it takes more guts than anything.
People do it to look forward to a better moment, don't they?
Labels: personal
Posted at 6:08 AM by Min
Monday, December 3, 2012
Life is actually frustrating me. My grades are not up to my standard (and colleges will be looking at grades from this semester goddamnit), I'm always tired, and I just can't be fucked to do anything.
I just really want food. I want to gorge myself on it.
But of course if I do i'll probably shoot myself in the fucking head because no way am I living with that much food in me.
Sometimes I just want to punch ungrateful people in the face and maybe shove a stick up their ass because jfc appreciate what you have.
Labels: personal