I, Too, Was Anorexic (An introduction into eating disorders, blood, and my struggle with suicide.)

Yeah, that’s me. That girl in the picture above was me. I was 138 pounds and thought I was in the prime of my life.

I’ve never posted this picture on social media before, and I think the reason is because when I was this weight—nobody ever saw the skin underneath. About four years ago, I was in a relationship that I’m ashamed to say I was a part of for a multitude of reasons. I learned, and I also learned firsthand the effects of narcissistic abuse.

The person I was with was highly religious. He was a Christian—or so he said, but his version of Christianity was more like Judaism in the New Testament. Everything was good for the first couple years, then I started getting blamed for his daughter getting sick; I was seeing stonewalling, ignoring, and blocking, and how I slowly started to develop a phobia of being stranded and alone. After I begged, pleaded, and practically cried my eyes out for days and finally came to his work asking for forgiveness—for things I never did or had control over—I felt happy again. Things would be great as they were, and the more I stepped on the scale, the more weight I lost. I thought that the more weight I lost the more I could control my life. Months passed and I was definitely starting to see all those bones, veins, and ligaments standing underneath my skin. I remember feeling so fucking good, and how me being this weight would make him feel proud of me.

Fast forward, and he told me I was I finally gorgeous, and that me being a fat cow wasn’t who I was meant to be.

It hurt.

It hurt really bad when ye said that, but I thought I was doing the right thing for us. As time went on, he would still call me a cunt, bitch, whore, and accuse me of sleeping with other men that didn’t even live in the same state as me. He would make up stories and call my phone in rage, expecting that I would “expose” the truth I was keeping from him.

I would cry, scream, and beg him to please believe me, as my loyalty in any relationship runs deeper than any fault. It didn’t matter, and the abuse slowly started to get worse. It was starting to get to the point that I was cutting my legs up and begging him to please stop hurting me, but he blocked me and told me that “I need to stop crying out for attention.” The weight on the scale kept dropping, and then…I turned to horror. I turned to something I had abandoned…for him.

Horror, poetry, and art were the things I turned to when his nightly slut-shaming would put me into a state of confusion and questioning. You see, I began to try to understand why.

I started doing research on narcissism, and I came to realize that everything on that list was a mirror image of how he was..

I saw that this person in front of me hated life so much, that his resentment and self-deprecation was a reflection of who he was. I started pursuing dark art again and delving back into my origins. He kept telling me, “I don’t like your devil art, and your Absolver video makes you look like a slut.” I vehemently told him that this is who I am.

I won’t change anymore for someone that can’t love me for who and what I am.

I got sick of that shit really fast, y’all. I started playing with my blood and started seeing the old person I was on the inside. The more and more he tried to yell, degrade, and punish me by blocking me…the more I painted, drew, and did photography.

Long story short, the bones started to fade away, and his abuse started to become a distant echo.

In 2019, my ex-boss sexually assaulted me while I was blacked out.

I was in disbelief that something like this could happen to me, and I never thought me, of all people, would ever have someone molest me against my will. I was afraid to tell anyone because I was embarassed. My partner thought I was cheating on him, of course, though I was in a state of shock. He eventually made me “confess” my crime, and I told him I was molested at a party. He told me, “I always knew you were a cheater.” And accused me of the act, and not my assailant.

We fought for two weeks straight. Everyday he would tell me that “my path of Satan, dark art, and cheating (even though I was assaulted)” were making me into a different person. He told mr that women who are raped deserve what they get, and that I deserved what happened to me.

I was at the gynecologist and in shock. That was the final straw.

For seven years, I put up with psychological, emotionally, and physical abuse. I told him that it was over, and the story after that consisted of therapy, medication, and hypnosis therapy.

Those parts of my life I don’t miss. I look at pictures like this, and I wished that what happened to me never happened, but it did.i think, a part of the reason things happened the way they did, is to bring me back to the things I enjoy.

I was told I would never be successful. My art would never go anywhere. And that my writing was shit.

Four years later, I found the love of my life, I’m a second-time published author, I do-own an LLC with my partner, and have worked with Kjetil Manheim.

Joe Cirrito is still working in an Italian market, baking fucking cupcakes and still a piece of shit.

So, to make a long story even longer. Follow your goddamn dreams. Follow every fucking dream you’ve ever had. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that it’s garbage, or that you’ll never go anywhere, because you WILL. And you’ll also feel better knowing you broke through hell and became a goddamn legend.

You are ALL legends, my friends.

And if you don’t listen to anything else I have to say, listen to this:

Go. Live. Your. Fucking. Dreams. ❤️