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These Days.

It’s been awhile. 

124 days to be exact. 

I don't plan to post again. I didn't before today, but for anyone out there who might be wondering, things are getting better. 

I laugh more. 

I talk more. 

I spend each and every day surrounded by smiling faces. 

I am Miss J. And you know what? I don't leave her at the front of the classroom anymore. More and more often, she comes home with me. 

I listen to Van Morrison.

 I smile. 

I no longer reach for stuffed owls. 

The snow no longer makes me cry. 

I cook dinner, enjoy dinner, eat dinner. 

I whistle at the grocery store. 

I am hopeful. 

I am growing. 

I am going to be okay. 

I am doing okay these days. 

So, if you’ve been reading, and if you’re struggling. 

Those days won’t last forever. 

These days will come. 

Hang in there. I believe in you. 

All my love. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

One Last Letter.

I’m free. 

My phone is empty. There’s a box on my floor, a carton of memories. This will go to Olds, so I don’t have to look at it for a while. 

I forgive you.

I forgive you for the way you responded. 

I forgive you for not wanting to talk on the phone. 

I forgive you for leaving, when I needed you most. 

I forgive you, for not buying me a birthday present, when I so desperately wanted one. 

I forgive you, for everything. 

It’s the first step, in forgiving myself.

Morgan, I forgive you, for creating a fairy tale, where there was only a stark reality. 

My dear, 

I wish you every happiness. 

Honestly, I do. 

I will think of you every time it snows. 

I meant that. 

Thank you, for your part in my story. 

Goodbye. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Ghosts.

I‘ve really been struggling with writing here lately. Like a lot. My last posts have been an outlet, but more about everyone else, than about me (if that makes any sense.) I think I’m trying to make it too artsy fartsy, if I’m going to be honest, and that’s dumb. This blog is called “Simply Me,” so let’s keep it simple. 

Today I want to talk about ghosts. “Ghosts” don’t refer to anything fancy, just the mindset for how my recovery is going; for where I want it to go. 

A Small Side Note: 

I’ve really dropped the ball on the whole recovery thing lately. At least that’s what it’s felt like. The worst part is that I’m aware that I’ve been dropping the ball. In these moments, I’ve been faced with two selves; the recovery-self that feels guilty for dropping the ball, and the ED-self that doesn’t really care; who feels guilty for recovering.

Mostly, I’ve been apathetic. 

Real Talk: I don’t like throwing up anymore. 

Realest Talk: I do it cause I’m bored.

What a stupid thing to do. 

Then next phase of recovery: Combating apathy. 

I digress. 

I’ve confronted a lot of ghosts lately. 

I reached out the other day, to someone I haven’t talked to in close to 6 months. I’m not going to lie; initially it was to fulfill a need. I’m not really sure if it was to fill my need for validation- to combat the isolation that so often plagues me- or if it was to intensify that isolation; because I honestly didn’t think this person would respond.

They did.

I don’t really know how I feel about it yet. I was able to bury the past. It was so nice to gain some closure; to finally lay to rest close to a year of waiting, a year of hurt, a year of intense vulnerability. Maybe we’ll begin again. Maybe we won’t. But it’s nice. It’s nice to just talk, without having to get to know someone new. It’s refreshing to tell stories, to laugh at memories, and not have them be painful, raw, or tainted with alcohol. But, like I said, I’m not entirely sure about how I feel. I feel a little scared, very apprehensive, but also slightly free and optimistic. (As usual, a jumble of feelings.) 

SIde Note: I’ve also become aware that I think this post is imperfect, so I’m just gonna take a moment. 

Morgs, this post doesn’t have to be perfect. You’re over-complicating things right now. 

Morgs, being imperfect is okay. After all, trying to be absolutely perfect is what got you in this whole mess to begin with. 

Okay, that’s better. 

I digress. 

A jumble of feelings. 

There’s still a lot of hurt there. There is a history of abandonment, but who knows. I’m determined to keep it simple. “It is what it is,” my Mom used to say. 

Seems like a good mantra. 

I will bury a ghost today. 

I’m really afraid of this. I know it’s necessary. I’ve known for a while; I just haven’t known how to face it. 

The unknown. The unknown is really scary. 

I read through my old diary last night. In all honesty, it made me sad. There is so much darkness there; black January, a February of grey. 

There’s a ghost there. In pictures, in stuffed owls, in walks in the snow. 

I have to let it go. 

I have to let him go. 

It’s a phantom dream. Clinging on will not save it. If I’m to be brutally honest, it’s not worth saving at this point. We’ve fallen so far, and the rift is too great, to save it now. 

But I am hopeful. 

He is so tied to my disorder. I used him as a weapon; the tool to inflict self-harm, the catalyst for a million nights in the bathroom, an instrument of pain. It’s not his fault. I made a ghost into something more; I made him an angel, I made him a monster. I created love in my own head, and used it to destroy myself. That’s not fair; to him, to me, to anyone. 

So I’ll let him go. 

I told the Wizard today. 

I need to face her. 

7 years of hiding. I love her, more than all the others. I fear her most of all. I see in her walks in the rain, batches of burnt cookies, pizza on the ceiling. 

Nights by the Christmas tree. 

I owe it to her. She shouldn’t be a ghost; this source of so much sadness. She should be a memory, a source of joy. I’ve been too scared; of feelings, of tears, of the prospect of my reality. 

She’s gone. 

This is my reality. 

But she doesn’t have to be a ghost. She’s so much more than that. 

I feel hopeful today. I got myself a vanilla latte, because I really like them. I’m panicking about it a little, but I know that’s silly. I like vanilla lattes, so why shouldn’t I have one? 

I’m taken back to road trips. Bean Brokers. A frozen hot chocolate, a cappuccino. Van Morrison on the radio. Two ghosts, both smiling. 

She would want me to smile. 

I shouldn’t be a ghost of myself. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

There Was No One There to Take a Picture.

Friday, November 10. 

I should be getting on a plane today. 

I’m not getting on a plane today.

Numb.

It doesn't hurt anymore. 

We’re just numb.

Me and him. 

Frozen in time. 

Or maybe it’s just me.

I forgot that we don't speak. 

I forget these things sometimes. 

Airport moments. 

What is that?

Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph” comes to mind. 

April 24, 2017.

Strong arms.

Brown eyes. My favourite in this world.

“Hello Flower.” 

A coming home feeling.

“We keep this love in a photograph We made these memories for ourselves Where our eyes are never closing Hearts are never broken And time's forever frozen still.” 

There was no one there to take a picture. 

This is an airport moment. 

Gone. 

Real Talk: I thought I was numb. 

Realest Talk: I lied. 

Friday, November 10, 2017. 

I should be getting on a plane today. 

I’m not getting on a plane today. 

I just wanted someone to know. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

For You. Not that You’ll Read it.

We met one year ago today. 

A 2 hour drive. 

Sexual tension. 

My fluttering heart. 

My bed. Tangled sheets. 

Made ours.

Shameless. 

Safe. 

You felt like home. 

I felt beautiful. 

Why did you take that from me? 

Why did you take everything from me? 

Why didn't you love me; why couldn’t you love me, in the way that I loved you?

Everyone has told me, “because he wasn't enough.” 

I hate the word enough. 

“He wasn't enough.” 

What if it was me?

Was it me?

“He wasn't enough.”

“He’s not enough for you.“ 

Then why? 

Why am I sitting here, in the bed we shared; in a place of coffee and laughter and love.

This place where we shared that day. The day of snow and music, and you and me. The day that felt like home. 

You felt like home to me. 

That memory burns me now.

A heartsick wound.

Barbed wire.

Screaming, from the inside out. 

What do I do? 

What do I do with WInston? With the messages in my phone? There are a pair of jeans in my closet, hair gel, deodorant. 

“For the next time I come Flower.”

What the f*ck happened? 

Sometimes I wish I’d never met you. 

I can’t bear to hear your name. 

And yet

It’s burning in my chest. 

The Wizard talks about a void. 

It’s there.

I know it’s there. 

The wind whistles through it, and makes me cold. 

A you-shaped hole. 

I’m afraid I’ll never fill it. 

Unending emptiness. 

This worthless, unkind feeling. 

I don't feel like I have a home anymore. 

I was so sure of you, and you ripped the welcome mat out from under my feet. 

You got on a plane 6 months ago, to the day. 

I haven't seen your face in half a year. 

So tell me why? Why am I sitting here with brown eyes behind my green ones?With memories of snowfalls and grey sweaters, and deep voices and endless nights of love playing through my head?

An unending movie reel. 

Threatening to drown me. 

This isn't a movie. 

And it’s you holding me under. 

Why are you holding me under? 

All I ever did was love you. 

All I ever did was give you everything. 

Broken glass. 

Shards of beautiful. 

One year ago. 

It feels like a lifetime. 

How far we’ve fallen. 

“I need to distance myself from you.” 

What you said to me today. 

Fitting. 

Somehow. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

A Chat About Peanut Butter.

A moment of clarity. 

A sigh of relief. 

I have been so stuck lately. 

I have been entrenched in recovery, but not in a good way. 

Entangled. 

That’s the word. 

I reached a plateau. 

No forwards, no backwards. 

Not going anywhere. 

Stuck. 

I haven't known how to write about it. 

How do you write about feeling the same? 

How do you write about feeling guilty about feeling the same? 

Peanut Butter. 

Today I’m going to write about peanut butter. 

Appointment #8. 

Before: Stuck. 

The feeling was stuck. 

It’s like alcoholism. 

This drive to vomit. 

This craving for food, a mountain range of food.

This primal need, the release of the purge. 

Vomiting emotions. 

Literally. 

It starts with a void, that “not enough” feeling. 

It ends in vomit. 

That’s all I’m going to say about it right now. 

I would rather talk about peanut butter. 

I have been so stuck with purging recently. 

It’s been everyday.

I have been struggling to make it once a day. 

Real Talk: I haven't been successful. 

I have been beating myself up about my lack of success. 

Appointment #8.

After: Challenged, but freed. 

We’re changing this . 

This everyday thing.

4 times a week. 

Only 4 times a week. 

Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. 

Purge- free days. 

I don't know what to do with a purge-free day. 

Let me put this in perspective. 

It’s been 10 months since I went a day without throwing up.

I feel like I’ll have a lot of time on my hands. 

I’m excited, as strange as that is. 

It will be challenging . 

The Wizard says withdrawal symptoms may be a thing. 

I will have to sit with the discomfort. 

I will have to stew in the miserable. 

I will have to deal, just like Susan said I would. 

Side note: I have actually grown rather attached to Susan. Funny how hindsight is 20/20. 

I digress.

The miserable. Stewing in it. 

That is the gravity of my addiction, my need for self-harm.

I’m excited. 

I’m surprised I’m excited. 

Anything is better than “stuck”.

A new dietician. 

I get a new dietician. 

Christmas on Halloween.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my dietician. I think she’s very nice, and that she knows what she’s talking about. 

Here’s the problem: 

She has no background with eating disorders. 

I need someone who gets me. Someone who understands that I’m scared of pasta; that to me it’s not just carbs, but this looming, sauce-drenched monster. I need someone who can help me; who will take my snack-phobia and break it down, make it seem less daunting. 

I get a new dietician. 

She comes Wizard approved. 

Snacks. 

The key to my success. 

Snacks. 

F*cking terrify me. 

A Note for Morgs, 

This is non-optional.  

Snacks are not an option. 

You can’t keep losing weight, or hiding when you feel hungry. 

What happens when you do that? 

Vomit. That’s what happens. 

You don't want that to happen. Not anymore. 

Here are some things to remember: 

(I’ll put it in a list, cause we all know you love those.) 

- Food is medicine. 

-1 cup or less: THIS IS A SNACK. 

- Snacks take practice. You will not be successful if you keep avoiding them. (This may suck, but it’s the truth.) 

- BIOLOGICAL HUNGER IS NOT RECOVERY.

I believe in you. 

Sincerely, 

Me. 

A new snack plan. 

Prepackaged. 

I bought hummus, to have with carrots. 

I bought peanut butter. Wizard recommended. 

Real Talk: I could never imagine myself buying peanut butter. 

Realest Talk: I ate it. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

A Need for Validation.

I struggled today. 

Today was incredibly difficult for me. I‘m not entirely sure why. 

It started in the morning, with trying on my new overalls. I was really excited to wear them. Somehow they weren't right. 

Except, I didn't see it that way. 

I’m not right. 

I didn't like the way they fit me. I tried on one shirt, then another. Nothing seemed to make it better. There was just something not right about me today. 

I didn't want to leave the house. 

It took everything in me to leave the house. 

I made it to school. 

Walking into the school was agony. I couldn't shake the feeling that people were watching me; judging my size, the way I looked, the way my overalls weren't quite right. 

I digress. 

I made it to school. 

I spent 2 hours in the library, crafting a paper for my educational history course Braindead, but feeling accomplished, I left for class.

I did the whole thing wrong. 

Well not necessarily. I’m sure I could hand in this morning’s work, and that, with a few minor tweaks, it would be a completely passable essay. 

Except, I don't do passable. I don't allow myself to do passable.

I do perfect. 

Perfect or nothing. 

“All or nothing,” the Wizard says. 

I digress. 

I was so angry at myself; at my own stupidity for not reading the directions carefully, at the precious time I had wasted. 

This, combined with my “overall anxiety” made today incredibly tense. 

And then I had to walk down the hallway. 

A million eyes. That’s what it felt like. 

On the verge of tears. 

It’s at this point in my day that I got a text from my roommate. She wanted to have friends over, at 7 o clock, to study for a midterm. 

I throw up at 7 o clock. 

*Cue panic mode. 

I’m really struggling with how I felt in this situation. 

On the one hand, I understood that she wanted to have friends over, that she had every right to. It’s her space as well as mine, and I should be accommodating. 

On the other hand, I felt extremely trapped. I felt enclosed, like this ritual, this thing that keeps me sane was being endangered, by unfamiliar beings. 

It’s hard to describe. 

I was angry at myself for feeling that way. I am so angry at myself for my reliance on vomit, just to feel okay. 

In all honesty, the moments I get to purge are a comfort to me. I wish they weren't. I wish I could say that I didn't want them, that I didn't need them anymore. 

It would be a lie. 

On days like today, when the world seems against me, I just want to hide. I want the bathroom, the toilet. I want to isolation that comes with me and the mirror. I want the numbers on the scale.

I can make you skinny. Skinny is the answer. Skinny will make everything go away.

Morgan’s Brain. All I want is Morgan’s Brain. I want her to tell me what to do, to take control, to make the world seem less scary. 

Except, she’s scary. 

She’s the scariest thing in the world to me. 

But I need her. 

I don't. 

I do. 

Do you see the problem here? 

Underlying all of this, underlying this entire slog of a day, was one simple factor. 

I didn't hear from him today. 

I hate myself for writing that. 

I sent him a Thanksgiving message yesterday, letting him know that I am grateful for his presence in my life, and for the time we have spent together. 

Blah. Blah. Blah. 

Another moment of vulnerability. 

Another round of silence. 

I feel like it shouldn't hurt anymore. 

Real Talk: It still hurts. 

Validation. 

All I want is validation. 

All I want is for him to say, “I need you.” 

All I want is for him to say, “I understand how hard you’re trying.” 

All I want is for him to say, “I love you.” 

Silence. 

The most heartbreaking sound in the world. 

For once in my life, I don't want to have to reach out first, to try so hard, to feel so undervalued. 

I undervalue myself enough as it is. 

“He doesn't owe you anything,” says the Wizard. 

Then why do I feel like he does? 

It’s simple really. 

I can easily answer my own question. 

Because I have given everything to be with him. 

Because I have killed myself trying. 

Because I have moved mountains. 

Because I would have crossed oceans. 

It still wasn't enough. 

You still weren't enough. 

These are the words that haunt me. Above all else, these are the words; the self abuse my brain hurls at me, each day that things go wrong. Every time overalls don't fit right, or papers aren't perfect, these words echo in the space between my ears.

Somehow, in my twisted, mangled mind, it all comes back to him. 

Validation. 

All I want is validation. 

Correction. 

I want validation from him. 

I get validation. I am validated by the people who surround me. My coworkers, my family, my friends. My father validates me, each and every day. 

It’s not enough. 

I wish it were enough. 

Real Talk: I hate the word “enough.” 

I digress. 

All I want is for him to validate me. I hate that I have this need, this drive to gain his approval. I hate that I am beholden to him, that I find comfort in the few words of love he doles out to me, in the same way I find solace bent over the toilet bowl. 

“He will never be enough for you.” 

“He’s not good enough for you.” 

Then why cant I let him go?

I go on and on and on, until I’m blue in the face, about how much I hate being an option. About how I want to be cherished, to be appreciated, to be a priority in my own relationship. 

Then why is the thought of letting him go so scary? 

What is it about him that stops me? 

What stays my hand? 

What holds me captive? 

It’s the same with vomit.

The same self-anger.

The same fear. 

Warning: This post does not have a clear resolution.

I don't have the answer. 

Just a hell of a lot of questions.

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

A Guilty Place. A Sad Place. A Lonely Place. An I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Be-Happy-On-My-Own Place.

I was supposed to go on a date today.

I am supposed to go on a date today. 

1 hour. 19 minutes. 

That’s when I was supposed to go. 

That’s when I am supposed to go. 

I’m not going. 

I’m really angry at myself for not going. 

I don't feel ready. 

I don't feel ready to sit at coffee, to talk to someone, to ask questions. 

Okay, maybe I’m ready for that. 

What I’m not ready for: To look across the table, and see something other than brown eyes and freckles. To see someone who is not 6′2; who’s not wearing a grey hoody, drinking a caramel macchiato, and rolling their eyes while I take a Snapchat of them.

“Hello Flower.” 

I’m not ready to give that up. 

I’m so angry at myself for not being ready.

I feel like I’m cheating myself. Like I’ve tied my happiness to something that can never make me happy, to someone who can never be enough for me. 

Scratch that. 

Someone who could be enough, but who chooses not to. 

What do I choose? 

I feel like I should pursue something, someone, who will adore me, give me the love I give so freely. 

“Find someone who will cherish you,” says the Wizard. 

Does he cherish me? 

I don't know. 

In his own way perhaps, but its not enough for me. 

It’s not what I need. 

He’s not what I need. 

He’s everything I need. 

5 months. 

5 months and 2 days. 

What I wouldn't give, for a plane ticket, a rowboat. 

Somehow it would make it better, somehow it would make everything-the fear, the hatred, the unending loneliness- go away. 

It would just be me and him and coffee and music and walks through the snow. 

Instead, I got invited for coffee. 

I really don't want to go for coffee. 

Going for coffee would feel like letting go. 

I don't want to let go. 

I don't want to let him go. 

I don't want to let “happy” go. 

I know it’s wrong to think that way.

I don't know if he could ever make me happy. 

I don't know if he’s willing to try. 

I guess I don't know a lot of things. 

All I know is there’s a void, a hole in my heart that is 6′2, with room for strong arms, and bear hugs; where there are coffees and brownies and cuddles on the couch. 

And guilt. 

A crater filled with guilt. 

Guilt.

For looking for something else. 

I shouldn't feel guilty. 

I feel guilty. 

I feel guilty about feeling guilty. 

And sad. 

I just feel sad. 

Silence makes me sad. 

The ocean makes me sad. 

3000 miles makes me sad. 

Lonely. 

The word that defines my existence. 

Tied to him, an ever-present tether. 

Tied to her, 7 years away.

Tied to me; this sense of isolation. 

A strained heart-song, that no one else can hear. 

I don't have any answers, only a million questions. 

It makes me sad, because in my mind; in this churning mechanism of confusion and doubt, there is only one thing that can make it better. 

6′2. 

Brown eyes and freckles. 

That grey sweater, that smells so much like home. 

Strong arms, a safe place. 

An airport feeling. 

“Hello Flower.” 

Real Talk: This isn't how it works. 

Realest Talk: I wish it was. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Trying.

I woke up at 7:31 am. 

My brain has been screaming at me since then. 

I don't know why. 

I wish I knew why. 

Why this morning? 

Why am I suddenly not good enough, when I was perfectly mediocre yesterday? 

How do I fight her off? 

This monster demon inside of me? 

It seems very big. 

I feel very small. 

It’s not about relapse. 

I’m not going to relapse. 

It‘s about the day to day. 

It’s about being able to get out of bed and face the world. 

It’s about making it through the day and being okay with being me. 

All I want is to be okay with being me. 

Real Talk: I don't know why I’m not okay with being me. 

Realest Talk: I wish I knew. 

It’s very isolating. 

This acute self-hatred. 

It makes me question everything I do; whether people like me, why they’re smiling. 

Whenever I see someone laughing, I always think it's about me. 

I don't know why. 

I just do. 

I just want to be confident, to be comfortable, to be home in me. 

This seems like a rather depressing post for Thanksgiving.

So I guess I’ll just leave it there. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Unconditionally. You and Me.

36 min. 56 seconds. 

A great deal of words. 

A tsunami of emotions.

I already feel like I’m losing the words. 

I wish I could keep them. 

In pockets. 

In frames. 

“I talked about you today.”

“I know I don't deserve you.” 

“I’m not that guy.”

“I wish I could go back to laying in bed; to Ludvico and the snow.”

“If it wasn't for my dad, I'd be there in a heartbeat.”

Indirect quotations.

Already lost. 

Slipping through my fingers. 

I have a burning question. 

It’s not a hard question. 

It is a hard question. 

It poisons him for me. 

It burns me deeply, makes words of love less pure.

 Why didn't you get me a birthday present? 

Wasn't I deserving of a birthday present? 

“I wish it could be different.”

Me too. 

A million times a day. 

Longing. 

The word is longing. 

An empty, hollow sort of feeling. 

Smiles on the phone. 

The absence of a hug. 

Half full. 

Uncertain. 

36 min. 56 seconds. 

A happy sort of feeling. 

A sad sort of feeling. 

A not-really-sure-how-to-feel sort of feeling. 

Words to keep. 

Small jewels, for dark nights.

Slipping away.

Oh, how I wish I could keep them. 

“I love you so much.” 

An echo.

My own heart. 

Longing. 

The word is longing.

3000 miles and a birthday present.

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Questionville

An appointment with my dietician yesterday.

These are usually pretty safe.

Blind weight.

Discuss meal planning.

Schedule for next time.

Pretty simple.

Yesterday was not simple.

Yesterday was so far from simple it hurts.

120.

My new definitive number.

I know, weight does not define me.

Numbers don't measure my worth.

Blah blah blah.

Tell that to my brain.

120.

Written across my forehead.

Sharpie pen.

Unwashable.

I find it impossible.

17 pounds.

2 months.

I weighed 129.5 last October.

The moment I stepped on the scale.

The moment I decided, "I want skinny back."

And here we are.

Questionville.

I was terrified.

2 pm yesterday was the epitome of fear for me.

An anxious, the-world-is-ending sort of feeling.

It's hard to explain.

A crossroads.

That's the best way to describe it.

I'm happy to be feeling better, to be working, to be able to use my brain without feeling like a puddle.

I'm happy my hair is no longer falling out.

No more heart palpitations.

These things make me glad.

I hate my body.

This is where I'm struggling.

120 pounds seems very daunting.

To me, it screams failure.

To me, it screams worthless.

To me, it screams giving up.

Im not really sure how to reconcile that feeling.

Hence the title of this post.

So we maintain.

I don't really know how to deal with this.

Cutting back portions.

Seems pretty simple right?

Wrong.

Already this morning, I was apprehensive. Unsure about whether peanut butter in my oatmeal was too many calories. Afraid that I would tip the scale, that 120 would turn into 121.

1 tablespoon of peanut butter...

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy about the smaller portions. I feel like I've been stuffing myself, forcing myself to eat, even if I'm not really hungry.

This is the downside of a meal plan, of mechanical eating.

I'm happy with the prospect of going into a meal feeling hungry, and that rapid weight gain is no longer my goal.

I'm also really afraid.

I am not sure how to trust myself. I'm not sure what is healthy, what portions are right for me, to maintain weight and nourish my body, without causing weight gain.

I wish there was a formula.

Guess what.

There's no formula.

So now what?

Scale back snacks.

Try to listen to my body, even though I don't know what the actual f*ck my body wants from me.

Try to keep my brain from eating me alive.

Welcome to Questionville Morgs.

Hang in there.

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

To Be A Princess

A moment of clarity. 

Grounding. 

A respite, from the noise between my ears, the chaos of my mind. 

A quiet place. 

I can’t describe it. 

What it is to be a princess. 

It’s 6 years old. 

Yellow dress dreams.

A Celine Dion track. 

“Tale as Old as Time...” 

It’s a kitchen radio. 

Weeknight dishes. 

A voice. 

My own. 

A princess voice. 

Lightness.

Floating.

Freedom.  

I can’t describe the feeling. 

A coming home feeling. 

It reminds me of the stage, of eight years old. 

My first performance. 

Aurora. A costume made by Mom. 

I hit an F#.

I was 8 years old.

“Wow,” said a man in the front row. 

I felt wow. 

I have been many princesses. 

I have sang many songs. 

I have lived and breathed the costume on the stage. 

The lightness, the release my voice could give me. 

The safety a ball gown could provide. 

I lost that. 

For two years I felt the void. 

I felt the constriction, the emptiness. 

Missing the stage, missing the costumes, missing the escape. 

An hollow voice. 

Rusty. 

Broken.

Sad.

And then I put on a ball gown. 

It really is magic. 

One word. 

“Transform.” 

It’s like walking outside of yourself. 

You drop the layers; the ugly, the hatred. 

Because you’re not you. 

You’re Cinderella. 

Or Ariel.

Or Elsa. 

Or Belle. 

A shield. 

An armour. 

Satin walls. 

Unbreakable as diamonds. 

There is nothing more beautiful than a princess.

I forget to hate myself as a princess. 

It’s amazing what a ball gown can do. 

I put on a ball gown yesterday. 

I forgot the feeling. 

That upright sort of feeling.

Lightness, straight from my heart. 

“Let it go..” 

Words that fuel my soul. 

A voice.

My own. 

Freedom. 

Coming home. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Seems so relevant, especially today..

When does enough become…enough? Smart enough. Pretty enough. Skinny enough. Healthy enough. Strong enough. Godly enough. Is being enough even obtainable? Or is it just always going to be out of reach? When are you worthy enough to be enough?

When I get “like this”, I lie. I’m just tired. I’m just kidding. I just haven’t been feeling well. I’m just over thinking. I just had a bad day. Sorry.

Enough excuses.

Honestly: I’m always “like this”.

Honestly: I always feel insufficient and some days I’m just better at hiding it.

Honestly: “Enough” sounds like “Perfect”..Is there a difference?

Honestly: I’m tired of fighting every day to be enough and I’m overwhelmed because I’m not enough and I’m afraid that I’ll never be enough and I’m angry that I can’t just be enough.

“Whenever you feel unloved, unimportant, or insecure, remember to whom you belong” “I chose you, I wanted you, I appointed you, I set you where you are.” “You are chosen and loved”

Honestly:  Will this ever sink in?  Because it’s all I have left in me today.

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Drowning in My Mind

I’ve just thrown up my dinner. 

I didn't want to. 

I wanted to. 

I am profoundly unhappy. 

I don't feel at home in my body. 

I don't feel at home in me. 

I don't know how to explain it. 

How do you tell people what it means to hate yourself? 

How do you explain the discomfort, the agony, of being you? 

How do you describe that you can’t truly like any of the things you could like about yourself, because you hate the vessel that carries them? 

How do you explain the mirror? 

I am drowning in my body right now. 

I feel like I’ve been dying in it all day. 

The first realization came at work, when I thought my thighs were touching. 

I couldn't see. 

I couldn't guard. 

I could only feel. 

Cloth and skin and hate and me. 

I wore leggings today. 

Leggings were a mistake. 

My belly stuck out; pudge and fat. 

The word “disgusting”. 

The word “putrid”. 

The word “foul”. 

They permeate my brain. 

A choking sort of feeling. 

A thousand eyes. 

That’s what it feels like. 

I had to walk through the university. 

Like a runway- blaring lights, camera flashes. 

I didn't have a chance to put makeup on today. 

I wanted to die. 

I wanted to melt, to cower to hide. 

Don't look at me. I’m hideous. Please don't look at me. 

Even now. 

Bending, twisting, bulging. 

My stomach threatening to burst. 

Mammoth. 

Curved in two. 

A grotesque extension. 

Distended. 

Protruding. 

My mind is screaming at me. 

A thousand obscenities. 

It makes it hard to type. 

I can’t describe it. 

I don't really want to. 

Drowning. 

The sensation is drowning. 

I don't think I’d make a pretty mermaid. 

Unlovable. 

A knife. 

Louder than the rest. 

“Love yourself.” 

“You deserve to get better.” 

“You are doing so well.” 

“I’m really proud of you.” 

Empty words. 

They’re not sitting at the computer right now. 

Where is my lifeline? 

I don't know how to be me. 

I don't want to go to school tomorrow, to walk down the hallway. 

I don't want those eyes, that judgement that fills them. 

I don't want the discomfort, of stomach, of thighs. 

I really want to go to the gym. 

I’m scared to go to the gym. 

The eyes are so much brighter at the gym. 

The screaming is so much louder. 

I don't know how to describe what it’s like inside my head. 

It’s very dark inside my head. 

Scary. 

Claustrophobic.

My stomach. 

All I feel is my stomach. 

Drowning in rolls, constricted by fat. 

“Weight gain is good.”

“You look so healthy now.” 

FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT.

I wish I had a scalpel.

It seems absurd. 

Perhaps it is. 

Goodbye stomach. 

Goodbye thighs. 

Goodbye hatred. 

That’s not how it works. 

Sorry to scare you. 

I just want to throw up.

Somehow that will make it better. 

It won’t. 

It wont give me any confidence. 

It wont make me feel less lonely. 

It wont make me happy. 

I want it anyway.

I want “skinny” anyway.

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

An Update

This week has been a sigh. 

I feel very weighed down. 

Tired. 

Dragging my feet. 

I am constantly caught between optimism and fear. 

Or is it reluctance? 

I don't even know if I’m scared anymore.

I feel like I should be pushing myself. 

I feel like I should be constantly busy. 

I feel very unsure about where I’m at in my life right now. 

Confused. 

I feel confused. 

Confused is a good word for me right now. 

Why am I confused? 

Oh lord. 

Where do I even begin? 

I’m confused about school. 

I feel like I should be busier with school. 

I feel like I should be constantly engaged, that I should be doing mountains of homework. 

I get mad at myself if I’m not doing homework. 

How f*cked up is that?

Money. 

I am nervous and unsure and stressed about money. 

I am really bad at saving money. 

I just want all these things; nice nails, a new tattoo, a pretty room. 

Things to make my life beautiful. 

Things to make it perfect. 

Things...

I don't know. 

I feel like I’m trying to buy my own happiness. 

Externalizing. 

That’s what the Wizard would say. 

It’s the same with relationships. 

God.

Like honestly, f*ck me. 

I don't know how to be single. 

I am not comfortable with being single. 

There is no validation in single. 

Single means I have to validate myself. And in case y’all didn't know, I’m pretty f*cking bad at that. 

I am so uncomfortable with me right now. 

I hate that it’s just me right now.

I feel like I should be seeing someone. 

Like somehow that would make it okay. 

How can I make it okay? 

I feel guilty. 

This person, that I feel like I need to be seeing, would be a doormat. 

I would use them. 

I’ve done it before. 

It’s easier that way. 

Real Talk: I don't really feel that guilty. 

Realest Talk: I probably should. 

I don't know. 

It’s a pretty big question mark. 

Scratch that. 

I’m a pretty big question mark.

I suppose I should bring up the food thing. 

Grocery shopping is rough. 

Today anyway. 

They didn't have the yogurt I like. 

I didn't know what to do. 

I don't really have a segway into this next paragraph. 

Imperfect. Imperfect. Imperfect. 

Worthless. 

FAT. 

I’m having a lot of trouble with my body right now. 

I don't like it. 

Like, at all. 

I look at my thighs a lot. 

My belly seems to whisper “pudgy” every time I look in the mirror.

My skin isn't very clear, and that bothers me. 

I bother me. 

I don't want to bother me. 

I feel guilty. 

I have been unable to get my purging together.

I don't feel like I’m trying very hard, to fight it, to make it go away. 

I’m not even anxious anymore. 

It’s just habit.

I feel like I’m just being lazy. 

And spending money. 

Food costs a lot of money. 

So I feel guilty. 

And here we are again. 

Honestly, I feel like I should have it figured out. 

I feel like in revolutionizing my life, I should feel different, more sure. 

If anything I feel adrift. 

I feel ugly. 

I feel like I will never be loved. 

I feel like my life has no direction. 

Caught in the tide. 

I keep trying to tell myself, “Morgs you’re only twenty-two. There’s no way in hell you’ll have everything  all figured out.” 

It’s not really working. 

Uncertain. 

I feel uncertain. 

Uncertain is the best word for me right now. 

I feel like I should say something clever at the end of this post, but I’m uncertain about what is clever enough, good enough, perfect enough. 

Perfect. 

F*ck. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

Struggling: With Life, With Finding a Title.

A lot to work through. 

Appointment #4. 

It’s hard to remember everything so please bear with me. 

It’s be a tough week. 

A confusing week. 

I can go to the gym again. 

Real Talk: I can’t wait to go to the gym again. 

Realest Talk: I’m scared to go to the gym again. 

The gym is a hard place for me. 

I love myself at the gym. 

I feel strong at the gym. I feel free. Running frees my mind, clears my head, until there’s nothing but music and breath and sweat. 

I’m scared of the gym. 

The gym was a “purge-place” for me; a space I went to burn. To burn the calories, the fat, the hatred. A place to leave, less than I was. I set fire to myself in the gym; sweat everything away, day after day after day after day, until I could barely walk. 

I don't know how to go to the gym 

I really want to go to the gym, to feel like I’m doing something. 

I don't know if it’s for the right reasons. 

I don't know if it’s for “skinny”, or if it’s for “healthy.”

I don't know if I know how to go to the gym, in a healthy way that is. 

I don't know if I can trust myself. 

Real Talk: I am terrified of myself. 

brokenness (adj.); 1. having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order. 2. (of a person) having given up all hope; despairing. 

“You are not broken,” says the Wizard.

Then why do I feel in pieces?

I don't really know how to articulate that feeling. 

A 7 year feeling. 

A hospice feeling.

An airport feeling. 

A goodbye feeling. 

I don't know what to do with a goodbye feeling. 

I have been drowning it in the toilet. 

What the f*ck do I do with it now? 

I wish someone would tell me. 

Real Talk: I wish there was a formula. 

I left the Wizard today feeling very lost. 

Afternoon purges. No more evenings. 

This is terrifying to me. 

I don't know what to do with this. I don't know how to do this. 

I haven't gone a night without throwing up in 6 months. 

I don't want to do it. 

I don't want to give it up either. 

I feel like a tightrope walker. 

My life feels precarious. 

I feel worn thin. 

Thin. 

My favourite word. 

Still. 

I digress. 

I wish there was a formula. 

I cried on the car ride home. 

I know that there is no concrete answer. 

I know that the Wizard can’t hand me a piece of paper, mix me a potion, give me a pill. 

This is my reality. 

I will be walking a tightrope for the rest of my life. It will get easier, and my balance will steady, but it will still be there; the haughty smile, the attic, the toilet, my brain. 

I just wish it could be different. 

I wish my life could be different. 

I wish there were brown eyes. 

One pair, with freckles. 

One pair, with glasses, a ready smile. 

I want that pair more. 

If those eyes were here, none of this would have happened.

I miss those eyes.

How much? 

How can you articulate pain? 

A 7 year feeling? 

A goodbye feeling? 

A “please Mom, don't leave me here alone” feeling? 

You can’t.

Macadamia nut cookies. 

Vomit in the making. 

The phone rings. 

“Hello poppet.” 

A him-sized hole in my heart. 

Caving in. 

That familiar knife wound. 

The word longing.

I can’t explain it. 

“Blinding pain.” 

As close as I can get. 

Three words. 

Silent screaming. 

I love you. 

Why aren't you here? 

Why aren't you trying? 

Why aren't you fighting? 

A thousand thoughts, an ocean of hurt. 

3000 miles.

I don't like oceans anymore. 

It’s worse than the ED. 

I don't know how. It just is. 

I wish it was different. 

Two words. 

“Lost.” 

“Alone.” 

Breathe so fully in my heart.

I wish life wasn't so scary, that I didn't feel so discouraged. 

“Visualize the future.” 

“You aren't going to be puking a year from now.” 

Real Talk: This terrifies me. 

Realest Talk: I wish it didn't terrify me. 

“Visualize the future.” 

Fuzzy and big. 

[simplymorganunedited-blog]

The Hollow in My Chest

I really don't like Sam Smith’s new song. 

By “don't like it,” I mean it makes me cry. 

Real Talk: I’m really struggling here. 

Realest Talk: I really want to give up. 

I’m currently sitting at my computer.

There is a stuffed owl in my lap. 

The owl’s name is Winston. 

I got him in May. 

My favourite person got him for me. 

I don't know what to do with him right now. 

I’m currently sitting at my computer. 

There is a stuffed owl in my lap. 

I’m looking at a picture. 

Pulled out of a drawer. 

This feels fake. 

This post that is. 

This feels like I’m trying too hard. 

I promised myself that I wouldn't do that. 

So here it is. 

Less fluff Morgs. 

I’m listening to Sam Smith’s new song. 

I’m lonely. 

Really f*cking lonely. 

I’m really trying. 

I feel like I’m failing; at being happy, at being strong. 

I miss him. 

A bullet hole, straight to my confidence. A pin in my already-deflated sense of self-worth. 

I want this to be a movie. 

I want that knock at the door, to see him standing there. 

Another airport moment. That’s what I want. 

This isn't a movie. 

This isn't a movie and I’m sitting at my computer. 

Real Talk: This is solitary confinement. I feel so isolated; trapped, in the dungeon of my self-hate, the voices in my head screaming, a deafening roar of abuse. 

Not enough. 

Worthless. 

Unlovable. 

Alone.

I’m trying. 

I’m trying so hard, to tell myself that I can do this, that I can be enough on my own. 

That I don't need anyone. That I am strong. 

What if I do? What if I’m not? 

A caving in. 

A cavern in my chest. 

I don't know how to articulate it. 

This is really hard. 

Recovery is hard. 

Breaking up is harder. 

I don't really know what to do with myself right now. 

I just want to be loved. 

I don't know how to love myself right now, which only makes it worse. 

I’m sorry this post is so depressing. 

I blame Sam Smith’s new song.