seahorse

11/1/2024

(content warnings: eating disorder, discussion of pregnancy, me being weird about sex)

the worst part about wanting to live is that you start actually wanting things

i used to be content with bulimia. i looked forward to binging and purging, i was perfectly fine with it controlling my life. i was depressed, but i looked forward to binge days. at least it was something to do.

now it feels empty, a distraction i don’t need. i won’t stop, but i’m always thinking in the back of my head that i should be doing something else - school, hobbies, whatever. i have something resembling a life, other things that demand attention. i don’t even enjoy the food as much anymore.

i want more than bulimia now, more than thousands of calories down and up my throat, acid burning my tongue and that empty feeling after. there are two kinds of empty in my head: fasting and depression. fasting is a floaty feeling, a giddy sort of weightlessness. depression is heavy, unable to get out of bed. b/p used to give me the former most of the time, now it’s predominantly the latter.

i want things and i’m scared. i’m no longer satisfied with my life as it is, and i’m unable to identify what’s causing my distress. there are some things i’m certain on: i need friends, some sense of independence, purpose. i can identify some strategies to address this: i can learn how to drive, pick a major, a job, move out. there are other changes i’m considering that terrify me more. i’m worried i’ll pick the wrong thing and ruin my life, though maybe i want that too. at least it’d be different.

i’m beating around the bush. no one reads this blog and i’m still scared to admit this. this is my digital diary, yet i still want to self-censor. i’m being stupid.

i think i want to have sex and i hate myself for it.

my partner is asexual. i am fine with this. i have been fine with this. i knew it when i started dating them and chose to anyway. for most of our relationship, it’s worked in my favor - the thought of anyone seeing me naked is revolting, the idea makes me want to tear off my skin. they have no interest in sex, allowing me to exist safely without confronting my tangled mess of body issues. nothing has improved with how i see my body, but i’ve been thinking about it more.

i don’t think i actually want to have sex in the practical sense, i know i couldn’t actually do it. but not having the option makes me agitated. my desire isn’t for sex so much as it is to be desired for my body, and that’s just not something my partner can give me, since they aren’t attracted to anyone. i know it isn’t about me, i’m not narcissistic enough to take direct offense, but i can’t lie, it has weighed on my self-esteem lately. not because they aren’t attracted to me, but because i don’t think anyone could be. i am too repulsive for anyone who experiences sexual attraction to even consider pursuing.

this is still a self-centered line of thinking, but i can’t break out of it, and that makes me hate myself more. i don’t like that my wants have changed, that i want more than my partner could give me. i love them, i can’t imagine my life without them, and i’m still unsatisfied. i feel ungrateful. i’m so hard to deal with anyway and i want even more. if we broke up, i’d be alone, and i’d fucking deserve it.

i really want kids someday. i don’t know why. pregnancy came up in a character.ai roleplay i did about eight months ago now and it’s been on my mind since, getting more intense in the last couple months. it’s a topic in a lot of my classes lately - the development unit in my psych class and the reproductive system lab for biology overlapped, and we were going over morality in philosophy class, so abortion got brought up as an example. it feels like a sign but it isn’t.

i would be an awful parent, and i should not be pregnant. i should not even want to be pregnant, the thought should repulse me, femininity and weight gain, but it doesn’t. it feels nice, intimate, something i could pursue after settling down with someone i love. i think it would make me feel like my body had a purpose, which is a patriarchal view, but i don’t care. i have spent so long searching for meaning by abusing my body and the thought of it doing something so beautiful in spite of what its been through makes me feel so much i can’t describe it.

it’s another night where i scroll through r/seahorse_dads and try not to cry. i want what i can’t have and it is maddening. my partner doesn’t want kids, i knew this when we started dating. i’m the one who changed, and i hate myself for it. i can’t tell them, i don’t want to burden them with my bullshit, but i feel like i’m going insane.

the time between my therapy sessions has felt so long lately. we did an ocd assessment last time, she said she’d look over it between sessions so i still don’t know if i have a diagnosis. i don’t know what i’d feel if i do. during the assessment, i learned some compulsions are mental, which gave me pause. i repeat phrases and run through scenarios all the fucking time, i didn’t even consider it could be compulsive. it really threw me off.

maybe prozac would fix me.

~april