I don't want to eat anymore.

Holy fuck, I'm getting fat. I can't even bring myself to the scale anymore. I'm terrified of the numbers. I'm FAT.

Last night I gorged myself on a loaf of french bread. Yeah, I ate the whole damn thing, I was in the middle of a bp session. I was interrupted when our guests from the back house came in for dinner, so I decided to head to my room and do some thinspiration-seeking. Unfortunately, I passed out cold and was unable to rid myself of that horrible binge...an entire loaf...of french bread...and butter...dear god. So, because my sub-conscience wanted to punish my awful behavior, I had a nightmare.

It was Halloween, or around that time at least, and my two (fictitious) sisters and I were getting ready to go out. I was still with the lovely H, and we had all gone on vacation to his hometown so I could meet his high school chums. I had on an outfit that made me look my very best, as did my two sisters. We go out and H escapes away with some old friends, leaving me to deal with these two. They're getting hit on by every guy there, because they looked so gorgeous, and I was just left sitting all alone on my barstool. At some point, I end up asking them, "why is nobody hitting on me?" (Cue sad face.) They proceeded to tell me it was because I was unattractive. I didn't believe them because they were so snobby, and I decided to ask around. General consensus showed I was, indeed, a fugly monster. Yada yada yada, they try to give me a makeover, we ask H and he skips around the question, which only validates my ugliness...the end. The moral of the story is: do not plan a binge while you're exhausted and forget (or fall asleep) before you can purge. It really fucks with your self-esteem...as if mine could get any lower. Fuck.

One More For the Night.

My mother is an alcoholic. I have an eating disorder. She can't stop buying the booze, and I can't stop buying the food. I bet she acknowledges her vice, that it's hurting her, just like I do with mine. But when outsiders want to help, we're both in denial.

"I didn't have anything to drink," she slurs. You can smell the vodka on her breath.

"No, it doesn't smell like vomit in the bathroom," I say, breath stinking of bile and unwanted food.

We're one in the same; like mother, like daughter. The difference between us is that I know she has a problem and I want to help her, that I think she needs help, to see someone, go to AA. I'm fairly certain that she knows that I have a problem, but she chooses to turn a blind eye. She asks mild questions that I can lie my way out of, expresses her suspicious concerns, but not once has she sat me down and told me "I know what you're doing." And either I'm a damn good liar, or she's an awful mother. Either way, I'm thankful.

To add to my weight and size anxiety, it just occurred to me that H may be trying to discretely tell me that I'm a fatass. He does MMA classes, he's gotten into crazy amazing shape. Ever since, he's been trying to convince me to to take these jui-jitsu classes because "it's good for you. It'd be really good for you". I've expressed to him on several different occasions that I have no interest in wrestling around on the ground, unable to breathe, in a desperate attempt to exercise. That's what I have my gym membership for. "But you'll learn self-defense," he argues. Ugh. He gave up on it for a bit. But tonight, after getting back from the gym, he informs me that the owner is starting a women's kickboxing class, "if I'm interested". Looks like my suspicions were correct: my boyfriend thinks I'm a complete cow. Six am runs should fix that, right?

While visiting my ill-stricken grandmother today, I was speaking with one of her friends who was helping her around the house. The topic was sewing and making clothing. She was going into the use of patterns and what not for skirts and blouses and says, "For example, if you were to make a skirt for yourself, say (she pauses to estimate my size) a six, you would need to use an eight." She thinks I'm a fucking size SIX...I'm a size two.

My collarbones are slowly being covered by fat. My pelvic bones are no longer jutting out. My thighs touch ever so slightly. No wonder H (the boyfriend) is being weird. I bet he's turned off. I bet I repulse him. Tomorrow I shall fast. Fastfastfast.

Is anybody listening?

Food Monster

You know what I ate last night? Two big macs, an apple pie, two sweet rolls, three pieces of my brother's personal cheese pizza, and four triple chocolate chip cookies. I couldn't tell you what possessed me to do this, but on the drive home from work I really wanted that special sauce and those sesame seed buns. This being the morning after, I have not purged it. I feel awful in two ways: one being that I'm a god damn vegetarian and I ate two burgers. It's the sauce...it makes me crazy. Second reason for feeling awful is that I didn't purge those two nasty burgers (along with every other nasty wretched thing I ingested). I can just feel my thighs and my belly getting fatter. I have no self-control.