Crash and burn

I'm going to restrict some and see if it makes a difference. Just a little bit. Not enough to get out of control, just enough to see if that's the problem.

He tells me that he's proud of me and that I've come a long way. I'm getting better.
But he doesn't know.
He doesn't know that I still bleed and devour and play with dangerous things and thoughts. He doesn't know how much it hurts and how i've been messing up all over the place and am back to cutting at least once a week. Perhaps that's better than every day, but it's not two weeks or a month. And how I've been bingeing and losing control and fighting a losing battle with my brain for control and how nearly every night it hurts and how I wake up dreading everything in the day but one thing.
He doesn't catch me in my lies. Not when I tell him I was good or when I use different words to describe my mood than are accurate or tactfully avoid answering questions that I don't like. I've stopped telling him. He doesn't want to know, neither does anyone else. I just burden them and make myself look weak and selfish and pathetic. [which I am, but don't tell them that.] And it's not even him. It's no one. They all think I'm doing well. I'm smiling, so I must be well. I'm laughing, so my mood must be perfect. I'm talking so I must be getting better. I can hide things so I must be fine fine fine fine fine fine fine fine.
I'm fine. Really.
Good, subject change. Let's get off the subject of me. I'm sorry for saying anything.