fml @incompetentunt - Tumblr Blog

You can still turn around. Delete your account, reblog some puppies, or even just block my blog.

But you probably won’t so before scrolling know this:

I’m glad you’re still alive, you’re doing your best and it will get better

I am severely mentally ill so my posts should not be taken as advice or truth or anything other than a deranged diary

You’re more likely to survive most cancers than anorexia, seeking help early is the best way to improve and lengthen your life

About me:

I’m 23

I use she/her.

I have a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology and I want to go back to school for my PhD/JD

I love hiking, writing poetry, learning, catching wild animals, and traveling.

I struggle with OCD, ED’s, and anxiety.

I saw a picture of myself. From two weeks ago. And what I saw was unrecognizable. An obese, unkempt, dirty woman with yellow teeth and thinning hair. A monster. An amalgamation of my deepest fears and insecurities broadcast for everyone to see.

I think this might be a full blown relapse now. I am disgusted by myself. I’m teetering on the edge of tears at all times and spending all my free time lying in bed. My health anxiety is at an all time high. I might have lymphoma, or schwannoma, or some other fucking “Oma” inside my neck. Part of me hopes that whatever it is requires an intense medical regimen that prevents me from eating. Part of me is terrified that this growth exists because I got fat. I find out this week if they’ll dissect me or dismiss me.

I just started a new job, and I’m interviewing for grad school, and I should feel blessed but I’m scared of and disgusted by my own body.

I am existing so precariously between a regrettable past and a bright future. I worry that the slightest step forward or back will tear me in two, like a rotten tomato with slippery skin and unwanted innards. Then everyone will see how terrible I am. How undeserving I am. How gross I am.

just1wish

sailorwhoosh

Height: 5’6 / 168cm

HW: 189lbs / 86kg

LW: 122lbs / 55kg

CW: 185lbs / 84kg

GW1: 174lbs / 79kg

GW2: 164lbs / 74kg

GW3: 154lbs / 70kg

GW4: 144lbs / 65kg

GW5: 134lbs / 61kg

GW6: 124lbs / 56kg

Celebrity skin(ny)

Time to use starvation as a way to make poverty fun again

persianmom-deactivated20260602

I think I’m a bad person. I’ve lied about terrible things. I’ve (almost) hurt people in ways that cannot be undone or healed from. And it wasn’t my conscious that inserted the (almost) modifier, it was my desire for self preservation. I would’ve done those things if there weren’t consequences. I would’ve told the truth if it didn’t mean my life would crumble.

I think that the world is a better place for everyone around me if I pretend to be a better person than I am. “Fake it till you make it” right?

I hate how fake I am. How flaky and cheap and dirty and selfish and unrealistic I am. I hate that some days the words coming out of my mouth sound like my mother.

I wish I could say I don’t want to be this way, but I think it’s innate.

So many people turn to god when they realize they are bad people. Unforgivable by mortal standards. But surely a divine entity is capable of greater compassion and forgiveness than we!

Can you be forgiven for the secrets only you hold inside? The things you know are objectively wrong, but no one observed? The things you do not know how to feel guilt for?

If I am a terrible person in a forest, do I even make a sound?

I don’t want to be me

I’m nothing to be proud of

I’m mostly ashamed

Arrested emotional development

Forever thirteen

I miss that suffering because it was so much more me

It still is you know

A huge part of me

Ten years later and I so badly want to transform

And I can’t

I’m comforted by shared trauma

I covet my frail adolescent frame

I want to feel what I felt the first time I kissed someone

The sensation of first lust echos in my chest

Reverberates down to my groin and up through my neck

I’m made of tiny shards of glass

Held together by years of scar tissue

The result of picking up my own pieces without gloves

I don’t shower so I can avoid seeing the rounded woman in the mirror

She is not me

I’m all sharp edges on the inside

Bones as prickly as thorns

Teeth as pointed as scalpels

But my nails flake apart

And my teeth are yellowed

And my skin is dry and my eyes are dull

My thighs pale and pitted with fat

I can’t be a dead looking mother

I can’t be a thorny mother

I can’t be a mother

I am a sad, fat, 23 year old wife

I have a good job and a lovely dog

I have a college education

I don’t have myself

And I don’t have my husband

And I won’t have a child

And I’ll hate myself and yearn for a better life

Knowing deep down that better does not exist

I could go get my PhD, JD, MD…

But being a doctor won’t make me more successful at fixing myself than the doctors before

My dose of anti depressant anti anxiety anti feeling pills is as good as treatment gets

Chemically speaking

I’m sitting in a nice apartment

I can afford the things I need

I have no friends near me

I can hardly eat

Everyone is dying

I’ll never have a daughter or son

I will work until I die

Love will never be new

My education is pointless

My mother is a narcissist

My brother doesn’t want to be here

My father is absent

I wish I could live off of coffee and wine

I am so privileged

My home is warm

I am healthy

No that’s a lie

There’s no way this is healthy

Laying in bed, still boozy, still reeling from the whirlwind of the wedding and college graduation, my new imposing “big girl” job, I can’t help but think about the fat on my neck, and chest and stomach.

Would it be easier to breathe if I lost weight? Would my anxiety melt away and leave only loose skin?

What if I took it too far, and ate so little I relied on the marrow of my rib cage to continue breathing in? And what if my chest split in two, each half of hallowed rib and fibrous sinew taking flight like a frazzled baby bird?

Then, would I feel free?

My matted hair sticks to my neck after another “bath” where nothing gets washed. I sit in a hot stew of my own misery, politely poised as self care, so I can pretend I have some semblance of personal hygiene going on.

Nothing is going on for me right now.

I’m married and have the degree and the good job.

In the absence of stressors I invent my own. I’m like that carnival game, where you smack a rubber hammer onto a platform, and hope the force is great enough to shoot a little ball into a bell. My bell, my satisfaction, cannot be touched without great force. That’s why I took eleven college classes this spring, and worked a full time job, and paid for a wedding and tuition out of pocket.

I miss the routine of it. The knowledge of what I was working towards.

Now I am content and unhappy. I have no idea what I’m working for. No clue where I’m going.

I find myself driving distracted more often, staring at clouds or finding myself lost in conversations with myself. And drinking more often too. The wine calms my mind more effectively than any benzo I’ve been prescribed. Though I’ll never mix the two, as I don’t want to die.

I’ve been thinking about becoming a mother. How I’d hate it, and how it would keep me busy, make my family happy. I’d likely be a shell of a person, completely inept and depleted. No good to a child, who would need me whole to turn out okay.

So I go shopping, and leave buying nothing. And I read slivers of the Bible, and feminist literature, and fiction when I can. And I’m not a religious woman, nor do I intend to be, but starvation feels holy.

I find myself wondering if I have a brain tumor, or bipolar disorder, or if I just need to get my PhD. Maybe I should go to law school? Maybe I should run a marathon? I could spend my time day-trading, building up wealth, maybe flipping homes? There’s no limit to what I can do.

Really I mean it. Even at my lowest of lows I’m aware of my capabilities. I can do any job, I can break any rule, I can stick to any diet till I die. There’s no challenge left.

I love my life but I’m dying inside.