A bit underweight, but on the plus side I could go braless.

6 pounds until I’m underweight.

I don’t know how I feel about this. I’ve dropped 18 pounds since January 1st.

There are a number of factors going into the weight loss:

  • I spend the night at James’ more often than not, meaning that I haven’t let a binge stay in for a few months.
  • I make sure to rid myself of binges since I know he will be touching me later.
  • I don’t want him to know about the eating disorder… I want to tell him when it is something of my past, not of my current.
  • I don’t overeat at random times for fear of triggering a binge. This means I’m not eating as often as usual.
  • I’m working out more often than I was before. However, I realize I’m fatiguing faster than I was, so I have had to cut out wearing the weighted belt for an hour of each practice.

No one else seems concerned, even those that know of the disorder, so I feel that I shouldn’t be either. But I can’t honestly say that I am trying to stop it. There is a slight thrill in seeing a minimum of a pound off at the end of each week.

I want to be fully recovered. I don’t want to tell yet another boyfriend that I have an eating disorder. I want it to be a defining part of my past, but not something that I currently struggle with.

Please, have the strength to get farther past this.

Shouldn’t have binged last night.

Too many things to do today to be this bloated. I am dreading wearing dresses today now that I look like I’m apple shaped.

Fuck this disorder.

Suicide Thoughts

I had a friend attempt suicide last Friday in the early morning. He chose what should have been a 99.9% way to do it, and ended up living. He now has to live with the agony of broken bones and faces surrounding him in anguish.

I don’t understand. I can truly say that I have not been happy with my life for years. I always look forward to at least a decade out, but have not been able to see the path to get there. I always feel like I’m dragging sand bags attached to my ankles and that I’m slowly suffocating from exertion. I mentally think that I want to die, that I’m not happy, and that it would be easier than trying to keep pushing against a wall.

However, I can’t visualize killing myself. I can’t imagine doing that to my Mom, nor how she would be able to live fully afterwards. I can’t fathom what would happen with my room if I wasn’t there.

I would not say that I am suicidal, I’m not on the same level that my friend was. But what am I then? I think I wish I was gone more so than “normal” people, but to what label does that put me?

I am beautiful…

beautifully broken. I always finish the sentence when someone tells me I’m beautiful. I do not agree on my outward appearance, but I morph their compliment of my facade into a true statement.

When glass breaks, it shatters into glittering pieces that reflect their particular images, not the one that a full sheet would see. These pieces are sharp and jagged, creating a scene that is tragically destructive.

I continue to break, with each shattered piece digging in deeper into my heart, muscles, and insides. I hurt, but cherish that my pain is my own, that I am able to hold the outside together as the inside continues to splinter.

I am beautifully broken. But not for the outside to see.


Drinking tonight. First time on 50 mg instead of 150 mg of zoloft.

Lets see how this plays out.

There are days that I do feel good about myself. I miss them.

There are days that I do feel good about myself. I miss them.

More pounds gone.

I’m sick, which means that I have no appetite. I thought that i had evened out, except last week I have weighed myself and I was down two pounds. I didn’t think much of it, but yesterday at work I weighed myself and I’m down even more.

Since the breakup (and since I was in the clinic) I’m now down 18 pounds. 

I don’t even know what I think about it. I know my chest has shrunk considerably, and I have made a conscious effort to not work out because I know that I’m not eating enough to not just burn off muscle. I’m still shocked though. 

E saw me on Tuesday and told me he noticed a difference. He then told me I needed to start eating or else he would feel guilty for sabotaging my recovery. I just wanted to spit on him for saying it. I was then informed that if the state of my toilet (from purging) did not get better he would tell my mom about the relapse. I am furious that he thinks he can still dictate how I live my life.

Do I know he is right? Yes.

Do I know he is just trying to look out for me? Yes.

Do I just want to keep shrinking just to stick it to him? Yes.

This is fucked up.