I know recovery is supposed to be good. I’m supposed to be happy. But what about that sense of lingering doubt. The aftermath of the day. The hours in bed wishing I didn’t eat what I did instead of just not eating it in the first place. At least then I was satisfied. I was high with hunger. I was happy with results, but never happy enough. Now I’m happy enough to slip, to slip into normal habits but relive my old. Now, I’m just stuck in between, and maybe grey is worse than black, take me back
i’m really tired of freaking out over money and school and stuff and i’m tired of being sad and i’m tired of looking and feeling like a little girl and sometimes i just wish a car would hit me on the way home so i don’t have to deal with anything anymore
