Healthier.

After my week in the city, I'm healthier.
After the bullshit that happened last night, I'm fucked-er.

Over the six days I was in NYC, I made a really great, tight-knit group of friends. One night, I was really drunk, and as I sobered up, one of my friends sat with me and talked with me and listened to me cry. I told her my life story, I told her about the eating disorders and the insecurities and the fucking people and how I hate people.
And she listened. And she hugged me. And we decided that sometimes, "It's okay to not be okay." And sometimes you need people who understand that.

And then things got fucked up at the theatre festival in Massachusetts. I don't even feel like going into that now. Or ever.

And last night, I saw this guy in my building. A guy I think is really nice and cute. Who pinky-promised me (however drunkenly) that he would dance with me at a party during spring term.
I said hi to him. Called him by name. Smiled. I've been told I have a beautiful smile. I won "Best Smile" as a superlative in high school.
He said "Hey." No smile.
The fucker still doesn't know my name, even though I've introduced myself about three times.


I'm too fat to be noticed.
I need to be so skinny that I am noticed.

I've been away.

I apologize. I was with a class on a trip to New York City, where the wifi costs money.
I puked once when I was there. Due to overintoxication. It's been nine days since I last intentionally stuck my fingers down my throat.

So there's that.
My friend keeps telling me how skinny I look and how I look like I've lost weight.
I think I might've, being in the city and walking so much. But now I'm in fucking Massachusetts for a theatre festival and getting fatter by the day. The last time I worked out was coincidentally nine days ago.

That's all.

I've been bad.

But I'm about to be good.

My nails are pink-polished.
My skin is getting clearer.
My hair is long.
My butt is more toned.
My legs are thinner.
My stomach is fatter.
Do you see a "one of these things is not like the other" sort of thing going on?
I do.

Girls are screaming on my floor. Fuck them. I need sleep.
Waking up at six to run tomorrow.


Did 45 minutes of Zumba and 15 minutes of the elliptical.
Zumba is hell on earth.
I love it.
And now I need to shower and I'm procrastinating and I'm scared to weigh myself because I drank a full two bottles of water (well, one was a Vitamin Water) after my workout.
I'm not even going to mention the bag of chips and M&Ms...
Oops.


I used to have a problem admitting to you guys how absolutely pathetic I am. I don't anymore. I wonder if that's a problem?
Fruit tomorrow hopefully. I'm addicted to oranges.

I don't know why I bore you guys with stories about my life.

Sorry.

So for the second night in a row, I've puked. After making an intentional decision to not stick my fingers down my throat.
I ordered Dominos, and after laying in my friends bed for awhile I realized two things.
1) I was really full, but not necessarily the fullest I've ever been.
2) I was minutes away from vomiting.

Luckily, I made it to the bathroom and the toilet was working.
I almost clogged it with vomit. Somehow managed not to.


I don't know what I weigh right now.
Whatever.
I'm fat.
Goodnight.

Last night.

It was... Interesting.
And drunk.

None of the frats were open, so we went to the bar. Around 11, there were five people (my friend, myself, and three guys). We were talking to the guys since my friend knew one of them, he bought us a few drinks. He ended up trying to get with me later that night, but he committed three grievous errors:
1) He called me a lightweight.
     First, I am not anywhere near underweight or short.
     Second, I come from a long line of alcoholics. Congratulations, man, you just insulted my heritage.
2) He told me that I was DTF.
     I'm pretty sure that I get to decide who I'm DTF with.
3) He TOUCHED my STOMACH. I don't even need to elaborate that one.


So I started talking to this other guy who my friend knew. And like, okay, for some reason, the guys I'm sexually attracted to are not necessarily physically attractive. They just... Exude sexual confidence.
He was surprised when he found out I'm a virgin. He said, "Where are you from?" I told him. "What, there aren't any boys there?" Well, yeah, there are... "Well are they blind or something? You're so pretty."

I like being called pretty.
Unfortunately for him, he has a girlfriend.
Unfortunately for me, he's a good person and is committed to his girlfriend.

Which, you know, I respect. I mean, he told me that if we hadn't been on a crowded bus, something might have happened. But he seems like a really nice guy. I haven't met one of those in awhile.
And he doesn't play texting games.
God, I HATE texting games. He texts me right back, and he even texted me this morning.

I'm still wearing my shirt from last night. He sat next to me on the bus and let me cuddle on his arm. He's very cuddly.
My shirt smells like him.

I'm trying to decide...

If sticking my fingers down my throat when I'm drunk because I don't want to vom on my bed counts as purging.

I'm so drunk right now.

So drunk.

Myself and Relationships: Part I

Through introspection today, I realized that I can not physically have functional relationships.
I think it's because I'm far too insane and fucked up to maintain any semblance of normal. And why would a normal person want a relationship of any kind with someone who should probably be committed? Therefore, my relationship options are:
a) People just as insane as me
b) No relationships at all

This is clearly why my romantic life is so prosperous.

I really do need a sarcasm font.




At lunch today, my friend (who I've seen once since coming back from break) says to me, "You look skinny! Have you lost weight?"
No, in fact. I haven't.
"Well, maybe you gained muscle and lost fat from running."
Yeah, that's probably it.
Then I went and stuck my fingers down my throat to maintain "skinny".

It's a weird thing, body image. In the mirror, I see myself as the same person from three or four years ago. Fat, awkward, covered in acne, pale, etc.
I can see the fluctuations in my weight in pictures (from my highest to my lowest weights), but I can't physically see a difference in myself.
All I see is fat.

Also, saw this on my Facebook newsfeed.
Really?
On Facebook?
Why would you ever post something like that on FACEBOOK?

Bordering on a healthy lifestyle.

I am, that is.
I've been working out every day. Eating healthy, single serving meals.
Binged and purged after lunch and didn't go to eat dinner today, though.

I gotta say, the only feeling comparable to the release of emotion when my fingers are down my throat and I'm gagging on a large chunk of undigested food is the feeling of my legs aching and my lungs burning when I'm running at six in the morning in twenty degree weather.

And I like it when my legs feel strong. I like it when I feel like I've accomplished something.

Pobservations.

(That's Positive Observations)
-Working out makes me happy.
-Water is filling.
-I don't hate myself after eating a normal sized lunch.
-I don't hate myself for contemplating a normal sized dinner.
-I have a nice butt.


I am also about to kill myself. The cheer coach just texted me a HALF HOUR before practice, telling me about the practice.
What the fuckkkk.

Infectious.

Once the idea of purging gets into my head, I can't get it out.

Like a disease.





On a side note, the finger I cut is one of the ones I use to purge. It sucks.

I'm so scared. I'm so scared.

I just purged for the second time today.
It was really rough, mostly because I waited so long.

I purged blood.
I've never purged blood before.


I'm really scared.
I know I'm fine right now, I know it's not some sort of tear, it was just a little bit of blood at the end of the purging, and it's possible I just scratched my throat with my nails.

But I'm scared.
Purging is the only thing I have that helps me deal physically with everything emotionally. I don't like cutting, I've never liked cutting, I've only ever resorted to cutting under extreme circumstances. Cutting leaves outside marks. Cutting shows the world that I'm fucked up.
Purging leaves the scars inside.


I'm so scared.
I don't want to lose my one violently physical way of coping. I can't. But I don't want to die.
Not this fat, anyway.


I'm really scared.
Do any of you have experience with this? Purging blood? I'm so terrified. I'm shaking. I was shaking, I'm a bit calmer now.
I'm debating whether or not to text my friend. I don't want to worry her, I think she thinks I've been getting better. I don't want to ruin her excitement for her party tomorrow with this. But I need her.

I'm scared to need her help.
No, that's not right. I love her to death, I couldn't live without her help. I'm scared to hurt her by needing her help.

I sliced my finger open today.

Not on purpose. No.

It's a deep cut. Bled for a long time.
I'm finally starting to get back into writing. Writing for fun, not for class or for work or for eating disorders or for other people. Writing for me. Which is the best kind of writing. I can write about whatever the hell I want to, in my little black notebook with the zebra sticker on the cover in the left corner and the start month and year on the spine in multicolored metallic stickers.
I'm ridiculously cute, I know. /sarcasm

I love stickers. I got a menagerie set. There's lions and tigers and bears (oh, my). My favorite is the zebra. I wrote a poem about it. If you'd like me to post it, let me know. If you'd like me to post any of my writing, let me know. I'd love to share it with you all. :)

My second favorite is the elephant. He comes in pink and purple.
He reminds me of how fat I am and how I need to run but I'm scared because I think I sprained my foot again.

But mostly he reminds me of how fat I am.

I figured out what's wrong.

This used to be a game. A game of numbers and calculations and somewhere along the way I lost that.

That sounds wrong. A game insinuates fun. Eating disorders are not a game.
But they kind of are. In a really sick way.


I need to get back to numbers. Because numbers are safe. And numbers make sense.


And numbers make progress.