What’s the point of all this craziness?

Last time I saw my therapist, she asked me very interesting questions, such as: “what’s the point of loosing all this weight?”, “what’s your reward for weighting so little?”, “does it make you feel better about yourself?” etc. The more I think about it, the less I can find a reason to all this suffering. No, it doesn’t make me feel better about myself because, no matter how much weight I lose, it’s never, ever enough. Having an eating disorder is like being best friends with the devil — and he never shuts up. Ever.

The lowest I got was 42.8kg (94.3 pounds), and I look at myself in the mirror and saw a big, obese person — regardless of the numbers or my clothes barely fitting me anymore. Having a mental illness is the most exhausting thing in the world, because you always have a war in your mind.

So why be like this? Why be like me? I know we can’t choose not to think about certain things, but we do have the power to shut up some thoughts, before it’s too late. I’ve been photographing so many beautiful girls after I started my project “La Peau Sauvage” and I wish they all knew how amazing they look. Hopefully, I’ll help them see how stunning they are, regardless of their weight and body type. I’ll make this my life mission, if necessary. I know how much I suffer every day, and I don’t want anyone else to feel this way.

Back to my therapist’s question: what’s the goal, what’s the reward? I don’t know anymore, because I’m lost — I can’t find my way back. But YOU can! And I’m here to help all of you. You can send me messages here, we can chat in private by email and, if you live in Montreal, we can definitely schedule a photoshoot.

Here’s where you can find me:

Don’t feel shy to reach out. Our conversations will be completely private.

Lots of love to all of you!

A printer out of ink

I don’t own myself anymore. No one can see it, but I have chains all over my body; it’s no longer mine. I’m looking everywhere, searching on every corner, but I can’t find it — I’m lost. Lost. They got inside and stole everything: my tenacity, my freedom, my heart; even my (in)sanity. Now it’s empty, it’s all gone. Each and every part of me belongs to someone else — someone else but me. I became a broken machine, like a printer out of ink. Yes, a printer out of ink. They used me to print their papers, without any appreciation, and now there’s no more ink. I can’t print anything anymore. What saddens me the most is that I printed all their papers, but none of mine — mine are all blank. I wished someone would say, “it’s not broken, it’s just out of ink,” but I guess it’s easier to say I’m broken. Well, maybe I am. Maybe it’s impossible to fix me after so much damage. I can’t function anymore.

Pressing buttons

Have you ever felt as if you were empty inside? No more agony, no more feelings. Nothing. Have you ever felt this way? Or as if there was someone screaming inside your head while you quietly sit still? Have you ever felt hopeless and out of control? What is it that make other people so happy? I’m drowning, I’m looking at you and suffocating. I’m being fed by words I never say, intrusive thoughts and fear — so much fear. My soul is restless, damaged. Maybe there is no turning back, no light in the end of the tunnel. What is the fucking point? Why is it so dark in here? Heavy breathing, dry mouth, eyes soaked with tears. Tears, fears, fears, tears. This is just insane. I am insane, I am a disease and I’m infectious. Delusional? No. Just reaching the end.