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cherrydi3tcoke · 30 days

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my poem about anorexia:

"ana"

my caved in chest

and chicken arms

my pencil thin legs

and all my scars

my hollowed out cheeks

the rituals begin

the bags under my sockets

the definition of my chin

the fatigue every morning

the dizzy every night

the hunger pain

and the shivers

triggering myself

ana is the boss

find a way to cope

weight loss

decreased testosterone

or the absence of your period

workout routines

food diaries

nausea

sudden death

making others worried

shortness of breath

constipation or diarrhea

cut out food groups

weigh in every day

osteoporosis

my hair falling out

lanugo on my skin

bruises on my legs

my collarbones thin

my spine visible

my sternum is too

my bicep non-existent

daydreaming about my meals

every calorie counting

working out for hours on end

stomach flat

unable to keep a friend

a kilo or a pound

obsessed with the numbers

check each ingredient

water instead of oil

unsweetened almond milk

or a rice cake

oatmeal

scared to attempt to bake

blueish fingers

yellow-tinted skin

anemia

distorted self-image

feeding all my friends

counting while I eat

portioning myself

starving is my treat

women

men

children

and teens

memorize the macros

"i am not a dog, food is not my treat"

cry yourself to sleep

"but I've seen you eat"

big

tall

short small

haunted by her curse

hours in mirrors

isolate from others

heart palpations

and restless nights

incurable thirst

intermittent fasting

binges or purges

all effects are lasting

normal on the outside

dying on the inside

questions from passersby

self-harm

"just one more hour"

"just one more meal"

"i already ate"

"it's not that big of a deal"

suicidal thoughts

being underweight

scared of being healthy

scared to get too sick

feeding tubes

hospitalization

thinking about food

hyperventilation

racing thoughts

loneliness

using laxatives

diets

going to the gym

going for a run

bodychecking

never having fun

infertility

cracked, dry skin

thin, brittle nails

weakened teeth

ruining my life

ruining my relationships

ruining my future

unable to eat a bag of chips

eating disorder speaks in my place

therapy

"just eat"

excuses for each meal

obsessed with my intake

obsessed with the math

obsessed with my weight

following this path

ice

water

gum

coffee

hoping that they notice

never tell a soul

hide it all from others

staring at my empty bowl

atypical or not

never feeling valid

covering my body

starving till I'm on my deathbed

recovery is useless

"i want to stay this way"

I'll have to fight my whole life

to keep her voice at bay

searches on the Internet

headaches

vitamin deficient

aspartame

comparison

"no cal is better than low cal"

refeeding syndrome

"I'm not good enough"

"once on the lips forever on the hips"

quick ways to lose weight

calculate my BMI

freak out about what I just ate

ana,

oh how she will lie

she doesn't want you to just be a number

she wants you to die.

-zsc

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l-e-morgan-author · 3 months

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my current wip list

Hands Made for Gentleness is about my two dear idiots Vaniah and Anneka, who get married to dodge an arranged-marriage law. Vaniah is incredibly traumatised by events in his past. Anneka discovers this as time goes by. It's a story of healing, mainly, and mental health. Boatload of trigger warnings (Vaniah is severely depressed, suicidal and all that goes with that, while Anneka is in recovery from anorexia) but I love them so much and I love the energy that's between them. At this moment I'm writing a scene in which they're arguing because Vaniah abruptly shut down a kissing scene without explanation and the conversation afterwards got mildly heated. Also they basically end up in a QPR more than a traditional romantic relationship and I love that for them. They're late twenties or so during this novel. First draft.

Patience, Changing is about Patience and her adopted sister Rhona. Patience is my autistic darling, Rhona is my current Discord pfp and anyway I love them. They have interpersonal conflicts that form the nucleus of the novel, but they work them out in the end. Teenagers, and absolutely no romantic relationships in this story which I love. Also it's set in my home city of Melbourne. First draft.

To Kindle a Flame is the first book of an embarrassingly big series. I first wrote the earliest draft for camp nanowrimo or nanowrimo itself, 2017. It started out as one book, in fact started out as a simple response to a concept outlined and failed to bring to a satisfying conclusion by a Christian book by someone in my denomination - In Search of Life by Anna Tikvah. I loved the concept (girl has questions about life, turns to the Bible and reads it, things happen), but then Verity never questioned that the Bible was true, which seemed wack to me. So I started writing a story in which my main character (Adira) found a copy of the Bible and then began to read it, but the whole time she's questioning it. It turned into about 300k of messy drafting (I've drafted it uhh three times by now and am gradually working on overhauling it, grabbing what bits I can and then finishing the draft, ideally this year) and has become a story about mental health, choices and the way people figure out beliefs. In the Gospels there's a line in which Pilate says "What is truth?" - that's basically the tagline of To Kindle a Flame. It's also dystopian. It's my beloved baby. Anyway I'm normal about this story. Also Adira is autistic. Oops. I didn't intend that. I just looked at her character one day and went Yet Another Autistic Character Ay. xD It's also set in Melbourne, but aforementioned dystopia renders Melbourne unrecognisable. I've done a bunch of worldbuilding on her. Also features the character who was the first openly queer character I ever wrote - Tom, who's bi, though he ends up married to Adira and never has a mlm relationship during the story (has prior - in the story he's side B). Somewhere between first and second drafts.

Do Roses Cast Shadows? was the most recent nanowrimo, and I got a grand total of 12k into it. I uh. Don't know what's going on really. I don't recall much, but I'd like to get back to it someday. My characters are Wren and I can't recall the male main character's name.

They Told Me To Name My Demons is a poetry collection I'm working up to publication someday. It's about Christianity, suicidality, depression, autism and identity. I plan to include 100 poems and 7 prose pieces, of which I've so far written and somewhat edited 84 poems (might have a few more, I haven't crossreferenced with my phone lately) and 4 pieces of prose. The title is from a blog post I read years ago and then wrote a poem in response to. Most of the poems have been written in the last year or two. I chase inspiration where I see it. First draft.

Sparks Under Heaven is a collection of five short stories/novellas, all connected to To Kindle a Flame (one features Adira, two her grandfather, one someone another character knew in his youth and the other focuses on an event from To Kindle a Flame but from someone else's perspective). I've had it professionally edited but the edits are sitting there still waiting to be touched, largely. Second-last round of edits before I self publish.

Through Lightning, Through Thunder was nanowrimo 2022, the happiest novel I've ever written and absolutely beloved. It features Taira (rabbit), Paddy (fox), Sheba (lynx), and various less important characters. It started out life as a Narnia fanfic, focused around my original characters with occasional mentions of the Four. It was 15k. Then I fleshed it out into a full original novel, 100k-and-counting. Oopsie. The good guys are trying to stop an evil dragon being resurrected (based on the Witch scene in Prince Caspian). In the end everyone lives happily ever after. Yay. Second draft.

[Inklings story] is about Hadassah, autistic darling of my heart who is thrown through a portal and discovers a found family on the other side, essentially. Downtrodden autistic but becomes happy and confident. First draft.

The Time Travelling Midwife is about Felicity, ALSO autistic (surprise!). I haven't got very far with this one either, it exists mostly in vibes in my mind. It's best summarised as the story with the time travelling midwife, who travels in time, is an angel, tries to stop evil from prevailing and when it does eventually through the building of the tower of Babel (mainly facilitated by one of her colleagues), her time travelling powers are taken away and she ends up settling somewhere in the 1900s and having a happy life. First draft.

Only the first and second are in active development right now. Please ask me about any part of any thing of this post. I copied and pasted directly from the Discord in which I rambled about them.

If I've forgotten any wips that you know about please tell me, lol. And this is only about full length novels or collections, not shorter stories.

#hands made for gentleness #patience changing #to kindle a flame #do roses cast shadows?#they told me to name my demons #sparks under heaven #through lightning through thunder #inklings story #the time travelling midwife #my writing #my wips

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somethingclevermahogony · 4 days

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OC Interaction Tag

Thank you for the tag, @mk-writes-stuff !

Rules: post the OCs of the people who tagged you and one of your OCs and say how yours would interact with theirs

MK's OC: Belladonna is a noblewoman in her early 20s of a space station floating in the void. She has recently been betrothed to a man she hates and informed that she is going to be replaced as the heir by a new younger sibling she will have soon. Belladonna is a highly anxious, neurotic young woman who holds herself and others whose appearances reflect on her own to an impossibly high standard and punishes herself (primarily via not eating, as she has severe anorexia) whenever these standards aren’t met. She has a kind heart and a clever, incisive mind behind all of her struggles, but years of abuse from her parents have driven her to disbelieve her own value and skills.

My OC: For this I'm going for Ninma (Book 1). Ninma is the youngest princess of the Kishite City-State of Labisa. She is five years-old, and extremely clever for her age, though impulsive and a bit spoiled. She is loud and opinionated, hot-headed to an extent, a trait which she has inherited from her father, Hutbari. But she is also brave and self-confident, perhaps at times too much so. However she is also kind and surprisingly emotionally intelligent, and is eager to help others when she can.

While she is quite fond of the luxuries of royal life; baths, perfumes, silken dresses, exotic spices, etc., she is equally happy outside. She enjoys climbing and catching small creatures like lizards and insects. She has picked up reading and writing from her tutors with remarkable ease, though to the distress of her tutors, her favorite poems and songs seem to be bawdy ones, more at home in the drunken halls of commoners rather than coming from the mouth of a princess.

How they would interact: I think that initially Ninma would be very excited to talk to someone else from a noble background who understands "fancy" things.

However in time she would become frustrated by Belladonna's neurotic tendencies and anxiety. That is until she discovered the cause of these tendencies in which case Ninma would become inseparable in her efforts to help or "save" Belladonna. She would almost certainly bad-talk the man she is betrothed to and may even try and convince Narul to do something about him for her. In any case Ninma would insist on introducing Belladonna and Narul as both it seems are heavily affected by the trauma and abuse of their past. Tagging @the-octic-scribe , @unrepentantcheeseaddict , @scribble-dee-vee , and anyone else!

#testamentsofthegreensea #writeblr #writing #oc #oc interaction

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magnoliamyrrh · 10 months

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one of my best edgy pieces of teen poetry was abt the sheer irony of anorexia. youre starving to death and can't eat gum without feeling guilty, but anorexia is very much consuming you alive, eating you whole, and feeling no shame about it. irony and cannibalism all in one. i need to rewrite that poem

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freezethebeez · 1 year

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Okay a Tommy chapter would be fine. Fun, even. But please please please I'm begging you to work a little on how you write restrictive eating disorders.

It's not about not being hungry. AT ALL. Unless you're fasting for more than four days (and, please, PLEASE emphasise that if Tommy ever fasted longer than a day, he would be counting the hours religiously), the hunger is constantly present. After about the four day mark, it eases up, but you're still obsessed with food, and you would not be able to act normal.

You've also said that the challenge with helping Tommy was starting him off with a slice of toast and working his way up, and even once he was eating full meals, he still struggled with every bite. Now listen. If you have been purposefully - and I mean PURPOSEFULLY, which is the very definition of anorexia nervosa - starving yourself, then the second you start eating more, you're going to be hungry. He was IN HOSPITAL. At that point, he's forced to eat more whether he likes it or not, and the hunger would hit him hard. And it would be uncontrollable. You've written it really well with Ranboo, but it would work even better for Tommy - especially if you can factor in the terror of him losing himself. If he's built his identity on eating as little as possible, it'll be nightmarish when he's suddenly clearing out the cupboard. But it will happen nonetheless.

Anorexia nervosa is not accidental. And it's not about not caring about food. Please, please don't confuse it with ARFID or lack of appetite. It tends to only reach that level of disinterest in eating during the late (and by 'late' I mean terminal) stages.

I think it's easier to write if you look at it as OCD - with which there's an EXTREME overlap. The obsession can be anything - fear of being fat, of being unlovable, of eating and eating and eating because god knows that if you started you wouldn't stop. Maybe Tommy just wants to feel small again so his dad will stop thinking he's strong enough to take care of himself. And the compulsion is obvious - it's hunger, and numbers. About a million sets of them. It's numbers as punishment, and numbers to stop the pain, and numbers as a way of describing what it feels like to hollow yourself out and scrape away your insides. But it's never, ever going to be an unconscious action. Anorexia nervosa is not a default. A default coping mechanism, maybe, but not from birth. Please keep in mind that Tommy could not be doing this unconsciously.

Also there was that one part in the chapter 21 when Tubbo checks for cuts. If Tommy cut there previously, the skin wouldn't be smooth. The skin will never be smooth. There's a good metaphor in there somewhere, and I sure hope you use it.

Sorry about all this. Every other Sunday I say YIPPEE!!!!! IT'S CATALYST SATURDAY!!!!!!!! So I love your work and also everything about you

thank you so much for this. constructive criticism is something i think i need more of, honestly.

anything related to eating disorders in catalyst is based on my own experience with them. i did take a few guesses for some parts (like tommy being hospitalized. i never was), but for the most part, i'm going off memory.

i've been recovered for about two years now, so while i remember some of my lowest moments, the day-to-day stuff has completely left me.

this probably isn't noticeable at all in catalyst (which is completely my bad for not making it clear or mentioning it at all), but tommy's not actually worried about the hunger, hunger is just a byproduct. he is very concerned about the numbers. and the only point where that would have been implied was when tommy was reading the poem in tubbo's dream (“Numbers don't mean as much to me anymore. The calculator in my brain has lost its batteries" which is SUPER implicit and i should probably clear that up).

i have a small backstory for tommy somewhat written in my drafts. in it, it's clear that he's focused on numbers— focused on them because it's the only sense of control in his life— as well as what happens when you present him with a hamburger and tell him to eat it (which is entirely based on a time in which i stared at a hamburger, debating whether or not i should eat it, and started crying. one of the many fond memories of which you're allowed to giggle at because i find them funny now). i'm aware that one does not act normal when you have are numbers in the brain. i remember getting a low mark on a math test (ironically enough) because i literally could not think of anything else besides what i ate that day, and what i had left.

tommy starting out small and working up to bigger meals was how i got better on my own (which i had to do. i wasn't able to see a therapist at the time and i knew there was a problem so i did my best to fix it. it wasn't easy, nor fun, nor was the process linear). again, i have never been hospitalized, so i really don't know what happens there. my road to recovery was essentially "still don't eat a lot, like, just a little more than usual, but also workout more because that's definitely healthier" and after that everything just kind of blurred. the exercise put me in a better headspace and got me out of that cycle, and i was kind of my own therapist at the time.

so yeah, i don't actually know how proper anorexia recovery goes, because i never had it, and i haven't seen anyone go into super high detail about it. i know they usually get a nutritionist, but i've never seen one so it's tough to write about, especially in high detail. if you or anyone else has information, i'd love to learn about it as long as you're comfortable sharing.

(additionally: tommy has a therapist, but no nutritionist because phil didn't see the point in that part, deciding that he can make sure tommy's eating when bee's meant to be. phil forgets about this as well, and tommy's left to his own devices.)

i'm aware that anorexia is not subconscious, and the more i think about it the more i realize that tommy's entire backstory is unknown. and it's not because i've been hiding it from you, it's just because i never get the chance to talk about it in full, and a lot of details go missing (i'll continue to work on that because that isn't good storytelling lol).

(and the reason why tommy's relationship towards food is messed up could also be because of ocd, which is something i didn't know i had at the time of my own eating disorder. you're so right, the overlap is actually wild.)

catalyst follows the dream smp timeline before the fic starts (when the fic starts, it derails), thus meaning that exile was translated into the catalyst universe in the form of dream (tommy's english teacher) keeping tommy behind after classes for extended hours to make sure he was getting his work done (he was) and just sort of torture him i guess.

tommy, now feeling a lack of control in his life, decided to limit his eating and lower his body weight because maybe dream would let him go if he looked too sick to be there. maybe dream would stop hurting him if he looked fragile. he was living on a hope and a prayer that it would all stop if he were just smaller. spoiler alert: it didn't, and now tommy's stuck in this awful cycle where every year around christmas (where dream's hellscape of a detention would kick up into overdrive before the holiday break) he goes back to those old habits because it just feels right. he's compelled to go back to it because it was easier to sleep all day and pass the time, and everyone always treated him a bit better when he was sick anyway— no one would dare hurt him.

as for the last point about cuts: i don't have experience with cutting myself, so i can definitely understand how that part would be inaccurate, and i take full responsibility for that. the adjective "smooth" was meant to be interpreted as "there's nothing fresh here."

thank you this, by the way!! constructive criticism is something i don't receive enough of, and just typing this out has made me realize where my storytelling is lacking. i've got a part in ch 23 where i can establish a little bit more of tommy's character and clear up some things. once the fic is completed, i'll also go back to past chapters and try to sprinkle in a few more details, or have scenes where topics are further discussed, especially about characters going through serious things like that.

responding to your message has been an entirely positive experience for me, so again, thank you!!

#catalyst #people asking me things #tw eating disorder #thank you again anon this is fantastic #and any other constructive criticism is welcome!!#because otherwise i would have just kept doing what i was doing and some stuff might never have been brought up

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halfdeadfriedrice · 2 years

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last one for the night because it's late and honestly i'm just nostalgia-bombing for me, but i found the poem. i've been looking for this poem for years. around 5 or 6 or 7 of them, since she stopped talking to me, moved away, and fell off the internet. i had lost the future but i find it difficult to not be able to carry the past, and how often do you get poems written about you?

god 16 was hard. and everything after that too.

since i'm removing it from its original context: some CWs for disordered eating, being 16, references to christianity and the republican-moderate agenda

when jesus ate my house

by [linna], Jul 8, 2008, 3:47:27 PM

1. do you hate me?, she asks.

my legs are in my face, pressed in the crevice, earth-break, ripping of my nose, hanging between my eyes like an extra arm, curling in on itself. i feel sick, dizzy; the world is a dribbled basketball, a honeyed ham, an empty soda bottle, a gutter and a staircase. i could grab her face, stretch the skin, vomit.

no, i want to say. no, no, no. please, don't think that. why would you think that? no. no, no, no. please, no. never.

i sob and shake. she wracks her brain for reasons to hate herself. i can't respond. my mouth slows and my head fevers, paces. i shiver. her eyes melt.

i am silent, fitfully, regrettably.

2. my head is the new batcave.

he starts up his car; the engine rears. my stomach roars with fitful delight. my gut cooks up a tornado against fasting, against eating, against being awake.

she laughs at my stupid jokes, my silly words, my bad metaphors. she laughs and she smirks and she smiles and she grins, and she laughs, she laughs,

she laughs. it is enough.

3. at the books-a-million at the local outdoor mall, we sip drinks and i anxiously count the minutes to closing time, searching for the words on the table. it will not hand them over. i look at her, blank, unsure.

you listen, she says. i'm not leaving. emily isn't leaving and i am not leaving and i don't care who left you before, because i am not going anywhere.

in the middle of the night she is telling me about gay men and a fire and her father's coffee maker, and i am throwing my legs in places i don't understand and my brain struggles with the idea of not-sleeping, while she smiles and begins to dream when she is still awake, and i know that she will for long after.

oh, i want to say. don't you understand? you're going everywhere.

4. the sky promises thunderstorms. i crack my fingers and bury my head between my knees, the epitome of safe.

she has been underlining things with her voice. i italicize, emphasize. she emboldens, brightens. i shrink back, slowly, step by step. she reaches out.

5. we are laying in my driveway. david jennings (my arch-nemesis, my rival, my enemy) rests at my side, crusted in my palm, and she is absent-mindedly watching the moon chew.

i am still babbling about my anorexia; it is the day of my diagnosis. she listens. i silently ask the stars to let the moment never end; however,

i am the one who stands up finally and says, it's getting late. let's go back.

6. my dad does not understand why i had to sit in the car to talk to her on the phone. his eyebrows constrict, contract, become semicolons and dashes and questions murdering his forehead. there is a contortionist living in my father's brow.

i tell him he does not understand. the telephone is like a dead rock in my hand, echoing her words, her sighs, her ums, her giggles.

he shakes his head, mutters something about teenagers. i recoil.

7. i want to, but

i do not tell her that i am afraid. i am strong, like milked bones and tightened rope and prisoner biceps. i am indestructible, i am clean, i am fortified, i am unbreakable.

i am too much.

8. she makes me try on nicknames. they fit like worn jeans, ballet slippers, ugly bathing suits.

lee is the first one she tries. i unsuccessfully try to convince her that leeann is a name on its own, that doesn't need to be shortened, altered, modified, bloodied, pulped.

lunch comes next. i give her mine with a reassuring glance and she smiles, sad, and works her way through it, rhythmically. she senses the awkwardness and drops the name; it sticks about as well as her trying to shove food down my throat.

linna, she finally settles on. it comes out of nowhere: no backup, no story, no explanation. it is simply there, attached onto my back, hanging off my nose. she reads it in my eyes.

she does not let it go. and after a while, i don't know if i want her to.

9. i don't feel real, sometimes. like my feet are simply weighted leaves, and my hands are lightened bricks, and my head is an empty balloon, about to pop. sometimes i feel like i am the burden of someone's imagination, a figment of someone's unsympathetic hands. a clay figure, a doll, a wooden statue, a house, a wall, a child, a corpse.

i hope she feels skin and bones, tissues and nerves, solidity and liquid, earth and water and air and form. i hope she realizes, and i hope she always

remembers.

10. this is a fic in which rodney is a unicorn and john is a rainbow.

my face is lost to the curve of my elbow. it is three-thirty a.m. and i cannot breathe. she spoons her ice cream and smiles, laughing dryly, quietly pleased.

there is nothing more. there doesn't need to be.

11. only you, she is cracking up, speaking through the giggles, can listen to this song while reading romantic fluff.

i grin. oh, be quiet, i say, and go back to your bdsm and bloodplay.

with pleasure.

12. she is my first victim.

i am practicing telling people i have a problem. it comes out hasty, undefined, nervous. oh, i have a disorder. oh, that's just my anxiety issues. panic attacks? yeah, i get those.

she does not know what to do with this information. i can tell. she has her legs bunched up underneath her, crouching to look at me not-eating lunch on the cafeteria floor, burrowed in the corner.

what are you doing here?, she says, instead. she does not know what to do, so she smiles.

i open my mouth. i think i like her already.

13. i'll walk with you, she says. i stare.

my voice cracks when i attempt to speak. really?

yeah, really, she says, laughs. why not?

14. there is a voice in the back of my head that tells me to listen to her when she talks about god, jesus, church. about belief. there is a voice in the back of my head that says to listen to her conservative views, her republican-moderate agenda. there is a voice in the back of my head that says,

shut up, for once, and listen.

15. in a pool in north carolina in a smelly hotel with a full set of clothes on each, we talk about our lives. we explain ourselves, quietly, shyly,

unapologetically.

16. eat, linna, she says. please.

i don't know how to tell her where i would be without her. without her telephone calls, her pokes and her prods, her questions; her asking of my writing, her encouraging me on, her awkward silences and comfortable speeches; the way she sometimes sounds distant on the phone, the way she inches in closer; her ethical debates, her historical trivia, her moral inclinations, her nocturnal sleeping schedules and her overloaded eating habits, her addictions and her favorites, her confessions and her not-secrets, her wish-secrets, her honest-secrets.

no, i say. i'm sorry. i can't.

i don't know how to tell her where i would be without her. i don't know how to explain, to convey, to write and to picture nowhere.

if you told me to stop, i would. anything.

17. do you hate me?, she pleads, begs, wonders and fears.

i am silent.

and i promise myself that i never will be again, for her.

#half dead fried life #not to be glib or whatever but god how grateful i am to my friends who helped me out of who i was and into someone else #i hope i helped too #a little bit #i was like 'dang i can't find any chat logs about this' and the answer was i was just constantly phoning my girl up #and texting some probably #but i didn't get a phone that had the capacity for those paragraph-long texts for absolutely ages #LOLOLOL i just remembered i did have some stupid boy text me a poem he had written for me and then asked me to text it back to him #he had got a new phone or something #and i had to do it laboriously #like 6 little barely-connected format-lost pieces of poem #anyway #sometimes the poems people write for you are good #anyway x2 this is also very appropriate i think to dip my toes back into the knives feelings of HS for this reading of h.omestuck.#nice to see where i was at while all that was happening #i was backreading SGA fic and worrying about everyone #i had ever met

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thisgirllovespasta · 1 month

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Final Words & Takeaways:)

Well girlies, we've reached the end. Before you go, though, I'm just going to make a few final notes and observations.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After reading all my blog posts, one may assume that I am anti-Tumblr and anti-social media. This is not actually the case. When it comes to this issue, my thinking is non-binary.

What is non-binary thinking?

Non-binary thinking is a way of seeing things as complex and nuanced; it is the ability to understand and appreciate various perspectives and truths at once (Seth, 2024, pp. 5-6).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That being said, where do I stand in terms of Tumblr and other social media? Well, I believe first and fore mostly that children should not have unrestricted access to the internet or any forms of media at that. That is simply a breeding ground for a slew of mental disorders later in life. I feel as though it is the responsibility of the caregiver to educate their children about the dark realities of using the internet. This includes establishing boundaries and promoting digital literacy are essential steps in protecting the well-being of individuals, particularly children, in the digital age we are in. As well as encouraging open dialogue and providing guidance on navigating online spaces responsibly can empower individuals to make informed decisions about their online interactions.

Fostering a balanced approach to technology use, coupled with active parent involvement and lifelong education, can help avoid certain risks associated with social media consumption such as developing a life-threatening illness like anorexia or bulimia.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As for older folks (like me), it is all about knowing your own limitations and setting boundaries with yourself.

If you know you can't use Tumblr without ending up on pro-ana blogs, don't use Tumblr miss girl!!! Get off of there!!! But if you trust yourself to avoid those areas of Tumblr, then by all means, blog away!

For me, it is a bit of a mixed bag. Sometimes I can trust myself online and other times I can't. What helps me the most is being transparent with my trusted people. I keep my best friends, therapist, and mom informed about my mental states and depending on where I am at mentally, I receive the help and guidance that I need.

Some days are harder than others, but the bottom line is honesty. Honesty with yourself and honesty with others.

I ask myself "is what I am doing online right now beneficial for my recovery?" and if the answer is no, I log off. And if I am struggling to log off or look away, I reach out for help.

To close, here is my favourite poem of all time that inspires my recovery every day because it reminds me of the power of community care and self love.

Please know that you are never alone, even when it feels like it. You are NEVER alone. There are people who care about you, love you, and want to see you recover. So if you can't do it for yourself, do it for them. If you can't do it for them, do it for me, because I'm rooting for you. I love you, I'm glad I exist<3

Xoxo,

Maria<3

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peysk · 6 months

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Kept getting those weird "I'm a neet femcel girlboss hikikomori" poems on Instagram reels and decided to look into them and noticed the name of the account sending them is based r-word gang which was a pretty clear fash alarm and basically now I know about the remilia project and the 4chan based suicide and anorexia cult behind it. The world really is insane

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poem-today · 8 months

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A poem by Molly Twomey

Are You Really Vegetarian?

Evidence suggests that among patients with anorexia nervosa (AN), about 50% report eating some form of vegetarian diet.

I don’t know if it’s the salt stench that makes me think of a woman’s seared flesh in Islandmagee.

Or because a lemon in a quail’s gut seems strange as a sun in a limestone cave or that I heard red meat parasites the heart.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the melt of camembert in two pork medallions, the swish of sliding king prawns off a skewer.

But I read before that when you consume a small creature you swallow its pain, a sow barely moving in a trough,

a bantam locked in a cage. My body is already so full of muscle ache and fractures in its tight gurney, my tongue

tagged with prescriptions. Not that I can’t stand severed heifers at the butchers pooling blood, the hooked skull of a fallow deer.

But that the nurses like trees, without being asked, are bending down and dropping peaches in my hand.

Molly Twomey

More poems by Molly Twomey are available through her website.

#molly twomey #irish poetry #anorexia nervosa #fruit #peaches

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writer59january13 · 1 year

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Inferiority complex as a kid, adolescent and emerging adult

Yours truly (an amazingly,

gracefully, and markedly modest

passively aging baby boomer -

formerly introverted long haired

pencil necked geek),

prattling wordsmith doth behold

nostalgic memories regarding father

(Boyce Brandon Harris)

long ago lapsed decades

during papa's prime time

many years past when complacence

existed about joie de vivre,

and considerations about mortality irrelevant,

where soothsayers promised

our family staying alive for eternity

few and far between instances found me

acting, exhibiting, illustrating brazenly bold

behavior, said rare spontaneity

the exception versus the rule,

hence following poem crafted

an endearment to those who begat me,

resorted to discipline, but NO spanking

ever since mama did cherish her little boy scores of years before she passed away

at her death hands went limp and cold

as a shy lad his maternal and paternal parents

their virtues he extolled

contrary, now healthy sexagenarian

born of sturdy genetic mettle

rumor claims I suckled magic potion,

cuz courtesy to preventative medicine

mother followed advice

of one Carlton Fredericks,

renown radio commentator

and writer on health and nutrition

ne'er did mine lovely bones buckle, even when skinny body crushingly embraced into loving maternal fold,

without doubt mama adored motherhood

and brood of three offspring

harmonized, memorialized, pampered...

the hardworking de facto breadwinner

late twenty something handsome groom fêted

born April 9th, nineteen twenty nine, Brooklyn fortune teller travails foretold,

when the late Harriet Harris, not so gold

din as totally bewitched, she gamely evinced

controlling authoritarian versus

crooning, marveling, and warbling

regarding once "little monkey" - me,

which pet name no longer applied

shucked off brought to abrupt halt as yours truly grew up,

and decried childhood's end

I experienced objection to thwart growing up, and latched unto anorexia nervosa countless moons ago,

when I biologically, emotionally, intellectually, and sexually transitioned

into socially withdrawn young man,

once indomitable omnipotent

mother/son bond ex post facto lost hold,

where once applicable theme

exemplifying Harris household

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay

dramatically, markedly plummeting

formerly measurable appreciable tolerance,

similarly short tempered patriarch ( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime) over any five members,

especially toward singular male offspring

timid, meek, and demure (effeminate) me, essentially ruled the roost

regarding Harris household

sole son characterized vis a vis presented passive resistant

outward nonestablishmentarian mold

worst case scenario

would hypothetically witness

Matthew Scott Harris

spending longevity old and feeble minded

at 324 Level Road

outliving parents, pets

(comprising inordinate

number of dust bunnies) and siblings, both caring and concerned girls

(an older and younger sister),

the latter whose globetrotting exploits I envied,

nevertheless yours truly speculatively imagined himself to have outlived anyone polled

even Methuselah, where mein kampf

blissful, fanciful, nouveau poet

nearly long forgotten boyhood charade,

facade inlaid masquerade

analogously crumbled like broken scaffold

attaining centenarian years old -

faintly maintaining umbilical stronghold

considerably surpassing mommy dearest,

born November 13th, nineteen thirty five,

yet moments before her passing

she barely audibly apologized

for occasions she did reprimand and scold

retaliated against grim reaper, he whisked her diseased riddled body away

after completing approximately

seventy plus orbits, all told.

I experienced interminable relentlessly psyche burning acrid

tormenting, teasing, and talking funny bullying vulnerability compounded amid

courtesy of split uvula set me apart

alien as a Druid livingsocial

during latter half of twentieth

and first two plus decades

of twenty first century rather a speech pathologist informed legal biological guardians

regarding Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic

minor congenital defect when attending sixth grade at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary

i.e., submucous cleft palate, aforesaid

whereby every day akin getting scorched by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid

me, this twangy nasal kid

my undersized and socially

withdrawn demeanor contributing

to existence tumultuous and turbid.

Extreme shyness demeanor

did heavily exhibit

as if burdened with a yoke linkedin with anatomical diminutiveness punctuated with aforementioned pinched nose adenoidal sound, quite obvious when I infrequently spoke

conveniently availed himself

as cannon fodder i.e. scapegoat to bullies as a socially withdrawn pre/

post pubescent slowpoke.

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zikitwopointoh · 1 year

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So, my family used to give me self help books for Christmas. I was like 16/17 when this “tradition” started. Yeah- thanks Aunt Carol, I’ve always wondered what the power of Now can do for me. I just wanted money…and isn’t that the best gift? Just free money. That’s also the best kind of money- like someone just saying “hey here’s some money, no you don’t have to do anything for it.” Kind of like we all become pan handlers during the Christmas season.

I met a guy onetime whose main job was being a pan handler. No, this was not a social meeting- we sadly had not matched on Tender. He told me his tricks though as if he somehow felt I would need them in the future. This oddly, was not the first time someone singled me out to tell me loads of information about questionable life choices. Do I give off some kind of scent or just have a criminal chic look about me? Anyways; he would go to a group of stores I knew, they were decently affluent and he said it didn’t matter what you put on your card board sign. That he had tested this once by just putting a smiley face on his sign. I guess he was keeping track on Excel of his daily profits and after data analytics realized this. But in all reality he told me he made about $200 a day and people would buy him food and give bottles of water and “it was great.” Like this was his life’s ambition. I suppose we should be happy he achieved his dream?

Things couldn’t have been going that great for him though as he was a client in a detox facility.

This Christmas I”d like the pain in my lumbar spine to go away. I don’t know if Santa covers this or takes my insurance- to this day my parents have not told me Santa doesn’t exist. To be fair if my dad told me he would be confirming the existence of ghosts or zombies- which leads to a question no one will answer for me. Can a ghost and a zombie come from the same person? Personally, and I know this is just my religious belief, I think so.

So I’ve decided to leave in good standing aka drop out of Wake Forest. This may be very stupid. It was ridiculously easy to get into Wake Forest. It took so little effort and they wanted me so much they gave me free money I didn’t even ask for (partial scholarship). But just because Im good at the market and can make people money does not mean I give a damn about business analytics and a regression line. So, at least I learned I hated business. It only cost 10k, but the stress induced anorexia was the best diet so far to get rid of my COVID lbs.

But I do have a plan. It’s always the same backup plan I have had my entire life. It’s just a little sharper in focus because I’ve moved it from an abstract plan C (plan B was to ride the rails as a hobo) to a solid Plan B. I’ll be applying to Northwestern University for my MFA in Creative Writing. So I thought, well who are the most famous authors I know? For recommendation letters of course and I happen to know a former poet laureate. One who told me they’d never forget my name. One who has a poem that inspired one of my top five poems. So, I went to google her to find her contact info1 and she teaches at Northwestern..:so I don’t think Northwestern would be AS impressed if one of their employees wrote me a letter of recommendation….

I went over a collection of poetry I wrote today, the ones I used to gain entry into my first creative writing graduate program and my mother who is an artist understood exactly what I meant when I told her that the writing surprised me. I was such a young writer. My pieces were solid and I’m still proud of them, but I was just a baby when I wrote them. I’m sure I’ll say the same in 10 years about things I write today. Our artwork is a diary of our lives. I looked at those poems today with older and much less critical eyes. Kinder eyes realizing I was just starting to hone my craft and I was trying hard. So many bad things happened in my 20s that my writing became very dark, after all what is life if not the backdrop of your art? I’m happy to say I see my old voice coming through again. The voice that made people laugh and think. The sardonic, sarcastic asshole that I apparently have healed enough finally to become again. So in the diary of my life- I’m recovering from the trauma of my 20s.

I hope they would all be proud of me.

#funny #blog post #writerscommunity #poetry

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jennarenee200-blog · 1 year

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Eating Disorder Treatment

We all have a purpose on this earth; but how do we know what that purpose is? I struggled with finding my purpose and whether I had the capability to achieve that my purpose. After learning more about myself and what traits I possess, I was able to figure out my ‘why’ and purpose. That purpose is helping people who are struggling with an eating disorder. Since I struggled with an eating disorder myself, I am extremely passionate to help other people who are struggling. More adolescents under the age of 18 are being diagnosed with an eating disorder and many places don’t know/ have the resources to treat people that young. With my own experience, many places wouldn’t take me into their treatment center because I was considered too young. With treatment centers being so uncompassionate, I ended up struggling for way longer than I should’ve struggled for. If we don’t solve this issue, more and more adolescents won’t get the help they need, possibly making it harder for them to recover or even end up in the hospital with the possibility of passing away.

Over this past semester, a lot of my Tumbler posts had a common theme of mental health; specifically eating disorders. The posts that relate to this theme include; Enough and Skinny Love. The poem I wrote; ‘Enough,’ is about my own personal journey with my eating disorder and how dangerous and addictive having one is. NEDA (National Eating Disorder Association) stated that adolescents who struggle with anorexia have 10 times greater risk of dying compared to their same-aged peers. Another source from EDC (Eating Disorder Coalition) says that at least every 62 minutes, someone dies from a direct result from suffering from an eating disorder. Recently, I had a close treatment friend that passed away at the age of 23. This death was extremely hard on me and also showed me how dangerous it really is to have an eating disorder. In my poem ‘Enough’, I wrote how the eating disorder won’t make you feel enough till you’re dead. It’s so hard to see that you are enough and worthy when someone is so deep into their eating disorder. I wanna be the person to bring them out of the darkness and show them that they are worth so much more than their eating disorder.

In my post ‘Skinny Love’, it is about how the eating disorder changed my life both in positive and negative ways. On the website, CPD Online College it goes over all the ways an eating disorder impacts your life and why someone who is struggling continues to do those unhealthy behaviors even though they know that it's not healthy for them and it’s hurting their family and friends. Having an eating disorder wasn't all bad, in some ways I'm glad I had one. It taught me to better process my emotions and it gave me a better understanding of mental health and how to help other people who may be struggling. I want to be there with my patients and their family as they get through the recovery process.

What can I do to solve this growing problem? I thought about this long and hard and one way I want to help is by opening my own eating disorder treatment center. I believe that every adolescent should have the resources to get the help and treatment they need. I do believe that recovering from my eating disorder showed me by purpose in life and that is helping others who are struggling.

The Eating Disorders Coalition for Research, Policy & Action thanks Scott J. Crow, MD, and Sonja Swanson, PhD, for their diligence and dedication in researching and compiling these latest statistics on the mortality rate. September 25, 2014.

Statistics & Research on Eating Disorders. National Eating Disorders Association. (2021, July 14). Retrieved November 29, 2022, from https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/statistics-research-eating-disorders

Huziej, M. (2022, July 28). How do eating disorders affect lives? CPD Online College. Retrieved November 29, 2022, from https://cpdonline.co.uk/knowledge-base/mental-health/how-do-eating-disorders-affect-lives /

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ye2owm2cm · 4 years

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“what do i do when there’s nothing in me worth having self love?”

—ye2owm2cm // fake love // 6:58 am

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honeycalories · 3 years

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homecooked meals

"The air is

wet

with stale perfume.

I watch her

stir

an empty pot,

and she asks

if I am

hungry.

I am so tired.

I sit at her table

and listen

to a wooden spoon

scrape metal."

#a poem about being too tired to fight my relapse #anorexia #anorexic #eating disorder #proana #pro x ana #anamia #thinspo #ed relapse #osfed #thinsp0 #bonesp0

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francisasparagus · 7 years

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For months, i gave my lunch to my classmate who regularly bought food from the cafeteria; not because i was generous but because

I wanted tiny thighs

fragile arms

collar bones

hip bones

to see my bones

to be smaller.

My skeleton projected out of my skin

after a while

and i liked seeing that;

I was satisfied.

It also seemed that I was

wasting too much

space and that to be

tiny was the solution.

To occupy only half of my chair in class

To insert myself between the spaces of a crowd

To occupy as little space people needed

to live

Because I didn't want to be a burden;

to be in somebody's way;

to live.

Nobody ever told me to move away

but i guess i was being generous.

#poetry #personal #anorexia #poems about anorexia #pro ana #depression #suicide #suicidal #brokensoulsuploads #writers creed #writerscreed #narrative writing #poetic writing

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wayfaringauthorofficial · 3 years

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You did the work. Congratulations, darling. You wound your way from the outskirts of town just to welcome me into the very trails of your bloodstream.

How does it feel knowing that I treasure you above all else? How does it feel knowing that you won, that this game, that so many died playing, was something you beat in the end? It only cost you the life you knew and loved in return.

Why are you crying? This is what you always wanted. They said thin was beautiful. They said thin was everything. Don't undo the work we accomplished. We did it together. Do you want to go and throw all of it away?

That pain is your reward. This is just the beginning. Your skin will gleam. No, I am not a monster. You're not allowed to eat that. How do you expect to be beautiful if you don't listen to my voice?

"The illness fools you." 2.6.21. ach.

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