All my life… (a letter to anorexia/depression/self-harming)

I originally wrote this some time ago – probably as long as two years ago, but I didn’t put a date on it. Just scribbled it onto a couple of pieces of paper and shoved it into my drawer. It seems appropriate to share it today:


All my life

I longed for a touch

that would give warmth.

A place that would feel safe.

Somewhere where I belong.

Where I can be me.

Where I am loved.


Safe… What the fuck is that even?

I thought I finally was.

Safe in the arms of my soulmate,

surrounded by our children,

a bunch of injured little souls,

craving the same as I did

all my life:

a place to feel safe. Warm. Loved.


And then you walked in.

On the back of our beautiful daughter,

gripping her tight,

and turning her into something so… I don’t even know.




Filling our beautiful home with lies and deception.

Dirty razorblades making a mockery of the beauty that was my fragile little hopeful origami box. Our wedding favour. A tiny little crane, symbol of everything I always wanted and thought I finally had, cruelly ripped out, discarded and replaced with pain.


Arrogant fucking disregard.

So selfish.

Could you have chosen a more cruel symbol of a container to hide in? You bitch of an illness.

You know how to hurt.


More than you’ll ever know.

I am aching.

For all of us.

You brought so much shit into our house, and I am supposed to just be able to deal with it.

Because I am a fucking grown up.


Guess what?

I am broken.

I crumble every day.

Feel like there’s nothing left.

Feel sick.

Worried sick.

Literally worried sick.

Desperate tears running down my face,

don’t know where to turn.

Wincing at the slightest noise in the night.

Waiting for the next disaster to happen.

I don’t know where to go.

My safe place is finally no more.


I am



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