awesome and exciting things have yet to come.

i once walked around thinking of all the great things i would do when i got older. i would be an amazing writer. i would have great friends. i would be a successful student. everything would be nice and fairy-tale like. i would have a cute boyfriend who truly loved me... all of this sounds nice, right?

i think about this now, sitting here fresh out of treatment again. all of those wonderful things i imagined are not things that i own. i can barely hold my head above water at this point, much less be a successful writer, or good friend, or decent girlfriend. a nurse at sheppard pratt told me that i should go on to do awesome, exciting things. she knew that i liked to write, and she told me that she wanted to read my book one day, when i'm recovered. the other day i was looking through journals, piecing together the bits and pieces of my memoir that i'm trying to write, and i was suddenly overcome by this horrible sadness. here i am, 16, writing a 6 year memoir of anorexia and bulimia. of suicide attempts, drug use, self-mutilation, sexual assault, a father that died and a mother that completely distanced herself and made her young daughter feel unloved and alienated. a story of a girl who has somehow always been fucked up. the puzzle that never quite fit together, no matter how many ways you work the pieces. a teenager that now feels more hopeless than ever. a girl stuck in between child and adult, scared to go back and scared to move forward. a girl who has yet again completely relapsed, proved the belief that nothing will ever change, that recovery isn't possible, that she just isn't meant to be happy. i wish i could write pages and pages of hope and inspiration. i wish i could write that i am finding that recovery is possible, and that i learned a lot of really great things in treatment, and that i believe that life will be okay after all. but honestly, i can't. i can't write of happiness or inspiration that has yet to be found. i can't write that i feel better when every day i seem to feel worse and worse. i can't write that i am healing when i am still cut open and bleeding. i can't pretend to have my shit together when i can't keep myself from falling apart. i want to do awesome and exciting things, i want to make people proud, i want to grow up and have a career and have a family and be HAPPY. i just don't understand why it's so difficult right now. i know i'm supposed to be alive, otherwise i would have died years ago when i SHOULD have died. i know that God has a purpose for my life, and all of these horrible experiences that i can't fully understand right now. i just wish i could move things along a little bit faster. overcome everything and move on to become who i'm meant to be. i don't want to be this messed up girl any longer.