I’m full of questions right now. Most of them go something along the lines of “what the fuck is going on?”

With me. That’s the end of that question. What the fuck is going on with me.

What do I want? What do I really want? What should I do? What could I do? What direction do I take? Why am I making the choices that I am? Letting others in to what I am? Hiding from others what I am? Why am I doing this? How did this start – again? Is it even worth it anymore? Is what even worth it anymore?

My brain’s been a busy place.

I’m happy. I’m functioning. I’m doing things with friends. I’m getting my work done.

I’m confused as hell. I’m restricting. I’m not restricting and then purging. I’m cutting. I’m not cutting but wanting like hell to. And none of it even feels like a big deal anymore. I’m not functioning. I’m doing things on the inside of my own head. I can barely be alone with my thoughts anymore.

I’m living in paradox.

A disgruntlingly large part of me thinks that I should go back into treatment. Put a hold on senior year of college, take a year off, really focus on recovery with no other distractions, get a grip on myself and my life. Let myself explore. Let myself just be. And it all sounds wonderful.

Except that it all sounds fricking terrifying. Hell no am I taking a year off. Give up senior year? With my friends, with my class? With the people I’ve spent the past three years living my life with? No way. I want to be there for the late night neuroscience homework parties. I want to do a stack (long explanation for that one) with Kim. I want to keep dog walking, keep doing yoga, keep volunteering, keep on with this life that I’ve built for myself.

This life that I’ve built for myself. It’s wonderful. It’s gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous. And a part of it, a part that feels safe and unthreatening and just normal now, is probably, if I really admit it to myself, slowly killing me. Because I know that odds are, if I keep this up, whether it’s next year or in eighty years, this will be the thing that kills me.

And I hate that.

Except that part of me loves it.

I know it’s sick, but it does. There’s an attraction to living in extremes, pushing myself so hard I go over the brink. That’s how I know that I pushed hard enough. There’s a thrill to surviving through a hardship that others aren’t going through, even if that hardship is self-inflicted. I will define myself by how I’ve fought through my trials. Except the problem is that I don’t exist in the having fought – I exist in the fighting. So I always need some sort of internal conflict in order to maintain my self-definition.

And so to keep my sense of self going, I self-destruct.

The rational part of me knows that I have another self-definition. That this girl who’s going up in flames isn’t the only way I think of myself. Isn’t the only person I am. And so I’m leading two juxtaposed lives, one definition right alongside the other, intertwined, each slowly annihilating the other, myself caught in the race between the two, to be left to whichever obliterates the other first.

So I’m left in confusion and paradox and indecision and ambivalence. And I’ve got a hell of a lot of questions.

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