So much of my life is centered on feelings of shame. I am ashamed of the way my body looks, of wanting to change it, of thinking I can … I am ashamed that I sometimes starve myself, ashamed that I don’t always starve myself. I am ashamed of even having to eat. The day before yesterday I almost had a fucking panic attack, because I had to eat with two people.
I stepped on the scale yesterday morning; 48,8 kilos.
wholly acceptable. I want to be pretty and beautiful and something to envy; not a cautionary tale. I am as close to liking myself and my body as I think I have ever been in my entire life. I thought somehow that when I revised my goal weight, made a conscious decision not to lose more weight, that eating would stop being such a hassle. I thought my fears would have floated out the window by dinnertime, because deciding to maintain is the solution to all my problems.
I was wrong.
I felt horrible yesterday. Just wanted to be alone, to not deal with eating in front of someone all the fucking time. Thought I might relax more if I smoked a joint.I should have known what would happen, but I am not as clever as I would like to believe.
Major binge. Ice cream, popcorn, cashews, crackers … I finally went to bed just to stop eating.
Weight this morning: 49,4.
I am so thankful. I know my punishment will come during the next few days, but I must be strong and at least control the damage. I said no to going to lunch with one of my best friends, just so I could liquid fast till dinner – I have date with a friend who has kids, so when I eat in front of them, I am very aware of how much I eat and how. I want to seem natural and enjoy food when I am around them. The worst thing I could ever do was make them feel like I do.
I’m going to go have a smoke now. I still feel full from yesterday. Full and disgusting.
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