Nostalgia.

There are things that hurt, that I imagine will always hurt. I can delve into the past without so much as a second thought. I have been a person I am not fond of. I have my regrets. Many of them. I wish I could have done things differently. Somedays I wish I could have done everything differently. I'm a firm believer in the whole 'spilt milk is spilt milk' theory, but when I look back on my life, that theory is shot to hell sometimes.

I want to believe that it's okay my life looks like this from an objective view. I want to believe that I can be friends again with the people I have hurt most, have hurt me most. I desperately, desperately want to believe that I will be better this time, that all will inevitably fall into place and settle in. But, sometimes, I don't know what to believe and all I have are these scattered memories that do very little save display the sad story of a lost little girl, torn to shreds and then mended sparingly.

There are holes in my armour. I can see through them. I don't want them.

Why have I been defective? It bothers me endlessly. I know I am no longer, but why is it that I have this gene, this ever present trait that deems me self-destructive?

Edit:



It drives me batshit fucking crazy that I could have looked like this for as long as I did without anyone even bothering to step in. Without asking for help. I should have been dragged off against my will to the nearest hospital and force-fed a cheeseburger. There are days I still want to look like this. Isn't that insane? I was so small. A child. Completely unattractive. People pitied me. I was nearly invisible, and I wore those bones as proudly as if they were gold medals. It sickens me.
I can look in a mirror, today, and say "Okay. Not fat. Fine." But, I couldn't then. I remember having a date (with someone whose name now escapes me), before which I ate an apple. I distinctly recall standing atop the toilet, my shirt raised, tears welling up in my eyes because I could "see" my stomach "protruding." And, all I could think while standing there was, "Will he like me? Will he think I'm fat?"
I realize now that no one thought I was fat, no one would even put my name and the word 'fat' in a sentence. Because I wasn't. I was so thin I was dying of malnourishment. And, all I could so was cry over and apple and throw up dinners of carrot sticks and steamed chicken. I will never understand where I found the justification. Never.
I have hurt so many people with this. I know I have. My poor parents. My poor friends. I know that the best way is to now make them proud by doing well, but shouldn't I have done that to begin with?

I don't even know what to do with my brain. It's exhausting.