Why Do You Spread Your Arms and Tell Me I'm Free?

Time is passing me by, as pounds of filth remain. Sometimes I wonder if my friends choose to have me around because I'm the "safe" friend. I'm the friend their boyfriends would never be attracted to or tempted to cheat with. They will never have to compete with me in the size department because they will always be thinner than me, better than me. I actually didn't think about this until after this past weekend when we all went camping for B's birthday (my best friend). Three guys and three girls and only 1 was a fatty. Guess who became the photographer? Yep, that would be me. I think I counted myself 5 times out of over 100 pictures. It's quite comical, really. There was this one guy, James, who went walking with me and somehow we got onto the subject of body image (I swear I didn't bring it up, but my bloodstream was all alcohol so what do I know). He's in the navy and I had never felt so vulnerable. He cornered me alone in the woods, in the dark, and grabbed me and kept telling me I was beautiful and that I have to love myself so that others can love me. I kept dodging out of his grasp, trying to get away; I didn't want to hear any of it, but he made me stay and listen. He didn't just scratch the surface of my wall, he took a wrecking ball and demolished my wall, leaving me open and fragile. And there was nothing I could do. I've heard this same bull from friends, but never from a man. It really hit me hard.

I stayed away from this blog so I didn't have to admit to myself that I had given up. The scale laughs at me, tells me I'm a fucking joke. The scale does not tell lies. My mother tells me I should see a therapist. Again. I know I need to, but I can handle it. And frankly, I'm not ready to be fixed just yet. Is it so horrible of me to want to be so broken beyond repair? I'm going to become so perfectly broken no one can touch me. I will be thin and beautiful and no longer "safe".