I just wannabe...

I want to be young and pretty again. I used to be both (though I didn't realize or appreciate it at the time), but now I am neither. I am 25. Yes, young in the eyes of some, but I am twice that age now, if not older.

I was thin and beautiful and energetic and motivated.
I am now the mother of two, older in soul and body than ever before and more jaded than ever.

That last remark may not be true. It just feels that way at this moment. I can't complain, though, because it's driven me to write again. There's your silver lining.

Am I destined to live this life forever? I wake up early to make breakfast and lunch for my fiancee despite the fact that I've woken up at least twice to take care of our youngest daughter (currently six months old). I can't get back to sleep after because my mind is racing through the events of the week, the day and the night before. Add in the day to come and it's a wonder I ever catch a few Zs after he leaves for work.

When I *do* wake up, I am sluggish and hungry, wishing for nothing but more sleep. A full day of sleep. A full day of unconsciousness. I want to ignore the world and my life for just one day.

Every day.

When I was young and beautiful, I was constantly tortured by an invention of my own device. I was thoroughly insane with regard to my appearance, to my sense of control over myself. I was thin (and that equals beautiful in my mind) and I was killing myself slowly. Various medications, strenuous workouts and an undying dedication to an impossible ideal helped push me through my days.

Every day, I woke up thinner. Lighter. More determined than ever to reach my ultimate goal.

And yet I failed. Or, rather, I succeeded in recovery. I spent so much time and money on recovering, only to find myself pregnant, removed from my home, my university, my friends and my family. Removed and dropped right down into another life altogether. Nothing was constant anymore. Perfect time to turn your world upside down, just as you're beginning recovery. Ideal, if you're looking for a good excuse to relapse.

I have so much to say here, but the long post will surely bore anyone, even my longtime readers and loyal sisters here. I miss you all so much. I realize that what I'm doing is probably not healthy (HA! "Probably," she says). I don't care. Not at this point. Maybe I'll come to my senses suddenly and realize that life without my ED *is* actually better. For now, though, I am caught between this feeling of need and this feeling of responsibility. The need for control over all that occurs should obviously be inspected by a therapist of some sort. The feeling of responsibility should be considerably lessened by the fact that I have a significant other who has insisted that he will gladly help in any way that he can.

But he doesn't. He can't. He can't help me stop wanting to be a perfect mother, a perfect wife, a perfect human being. I will strive for these things endlessly, regardless of the consequences.

And I shall continue on another day. Thank you for reading, my darlings.

As always, stay lovely.

-Phantasmagorical Delusion