I am on the bus to my boyfriend’s, and all I feel is this sense of calm. For the first time in a long time, I feel a security, freedom and privacy that I’ve been missing. When you know someone’s watching from afar, there’s a degree of pressure, as well as their obvious judgment. I have to be happier, be prettier, thinner, sicker no no I mean more recovered and well no wait sicker, more successful, more put together, smarter etc etc and oh does it go on. Constant comparison is exhausting – made more so when you’re comparing yourself to someone who you are just terrified of being in any way similar to. Or comparing yourself to someone who’s really not worth comparing yourself to, in any shape or form – particularly when this person is the reason you’ve had to spend so long picking up the pieces of the person you love most. No, babe, you don’t have to ask my permission to go to sleep, to see your best friend, to disappear for just a minute. No, please stop apologising, never apologise for how you feel. I can’t adequately put into words how it feels to be obsessed with something or someone who is just so inherently damaging. Especially when you’re usually a rational and intelligent person. I don’t do well with things that don’t make sense, things that I cannot control – and at times this social media obsession has felt like both. On my part, as well as hers. And even after the blocking and deleting a couple of months ago, I still didn’t get that full stop I wanted. But now, right now at least, any curiosity I sickeningly had has just shat itself. I’m so done. I don’t have the time, the patience, the self-hate that drives the comparison. We’re mutual block-ees. There are ways around it and proxies and incognito windows, but I’m done. My full stop feels thankfully solid. I have so many insults, so many pent up lines, an endless number of sighs and facepalms and groans and eye rolls, I have clenched fists and violent self-satisfying imagery, but for the first I get it. He’s right. 

She’s not worth it.



This is a very old piece of prose. Written around the end of 2012, and all very much in reference to real life events. There’s a hefty trigger warning on this, for fairly graphic descriptions. There’s something utterly compelling and masochistic about writing about and reflecting on my experiences of self harm, much in the same way there is when partaking in self harm, I find.

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