For the past, well God knows how long, I've been having night terrors about my hospitalization in Dominion Hospital. My psychiatrist diagnosed me with having Post Dramatic Stress Disorder from the experience, but to me...I feel like I don't deserve to have that. PDSD is what soldiers get, heroes from far away, who have done unbelievable acts in the name of freedom and peace. Not some no body from NOVA with an eating disorder. Writing about the experience in my college English class relieved some of the stress, but my professor recommended blogging it so i guess here goes nothing.
As I look around, I can see my worse fears coming true: endless amounts of meat, bottomless salad bars, and never ending pasta. I sit at the table, shaking as though I am in epileptic shock, "this can't be happening," I tell myself. Erin, my dietitian creeps up behind me with my covered try of food. The tray was disgusting, pale tan plastic with two small indentations on each side for utensils (although I was never given a plastic knife), a circle in the center that seemed to spread out to Neverland (which held the entree), and a large plate cover; who's leathery texture and putrid plastic smell still makes me gag even today. "Dig in," my personal Grim Reaper says, I lift the cover to reveal the most horrid of all things. The bitch doubled my protein and fats without telling me! Two veggie burger patties, and two slices of american cheese on a bun, with a dinner roll on the side with heart friendly butter, a tiny salad was slyly hidden in the corner consisting of a strand of lettuce and a slice of cucumber.
I clinch at the sight of the huge meal in front of me, Erin and the other ED patients are all sitting around me eating. they're eating without a care in the world. I feel so damn alone, my heart screams inside my chest to plunge the dull plastic fork into my bony chest in an effort to end the suffering, the humiliation. I...just...can't...do...it...damn. They all stare down upon me, like ravens in a cemetery glaring down upon a poorly dug corpse. Their eyes, oh God their eyes burn my skin, rip my heart to shreds, send me into a huge downward spiral. Breaking down releasing all of my bodily fluids through my eyes, I drown the cafeteria with my tears. "What have I become....what have I become?"
Flawz are me.Perfect isn't you.If I said I was perfect, I'd be so far from the truth.I have scars littering my arms, and legs, from how I dealt with mental pain.I'm not better. I probably won't be, and I always used to get stared at, strange looks and comments on them. It used to affect me to the point I think I was ugly and make more.I know I'm not overly pretty, but the scars make me who I am. I wouldn't want to change that.If I had the chance to be perfect, I wouldn't take it. I like me for who I am. I may not be 100% okay with myself, but I want people to know they're beautiful with whatever they think is ugly about themselves. Imperfection is the new Perfection♥
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