of frustration and tired lies

I am a broken, skipping record, caught in an endless loop.

The same words. The same lies. The same story.

Pointless.

I am so frustrated. I am so tired of writing the same things. I am so tired of feeling the same things. I stare at the stark whiteness of an empty screen and my fingers go still.

I want to tell the truth, but I am a liar.

I am stuck at 119 lbs.

Today I ate two square meals. Cream of chicken and rice soup, which I accidentally ordered thinking it was broth based. Fat fat fat. Quinoa with roasted vegetables and no dressing save a little spicy mustard.

I rode my bike for half an hour.

I thought about killing myself once.

The Mr. and I got in a terrible fight a month ago because he caught me commenting on a blog. I usually wait until he's fallen asleep, but I had headphones in and he surprised me. I completely freaked out and wouldn't let him look at my screen. Totally normal behavior, right?

"Are you doing that blog thing again?" He immediately asked, his voice loud and urgent, eyes narrowed, worry in every line on his face.

I bumbled my way through that one. Lies. Frantic lies. It was ugly. He was so upset, so worried, and all I did was lie.

I don't know why I push away the people who love me. I don't know why I cannot let them help me. I just can't.

I called a suicide hotline a few weeks after the fight. Willow answered. I hung up. I called again five minutes later. Willow answered again, her voice sounding anxious. I hung up a second time.

I don't know how to stop lying.

lost

"Why aren't you eating meat? Are you a vegetarian now?"

The question is directed to my best friend's 13 year old cousin. She blinks up at her uncle, the questioner, eyes slightly panicked. Her plate contains a slice of lettuce, a slice of tomato, and a piece of cheese. There is a pause. A small one. It goes unnoticed by the others.

It screams a million words to me.

"I just don't feel like eating meat today." She finally says, shrugging casually.

She says the same thing the next day. And the next.

I know the truth.

I watch her, slender and young. I see the way her eyes cut sideways, the way she chews her lip uncertainly. I see her checking labels. I hear the unspoken pain behind the things she says. The same words that keep spilling out of her mouth because she can't help herself. I know the path she's started down. I see the edge she's flirting with.

I stay silent.

I am 26 years, 6 months, and 22 days old.

I am lost too.