And it's getting worse.

I have eaten a cup and a half of chocolate chips, countless pita chips, a granola bar, a sugar cookie, wheat thin crackers, a glass of chocolate soy milk, two toaster strudels...a small binge, but a binge nonetheless. I've guzzled down almost a liter of water in hopes of getting it all back up. No one is home. The porcelain god and I can finally have our alone time.

I want to cry right now, though I'm not too sure what for. Perhaps it's because my mother and I got into a fight, which ended up in her kicking me out. Perhaps it's because I think H really is falling out of love with me. Or perhaps, it's the never ending battle with my shitty self-esteem. I suppose I should explain the three topics:

1. A few weeks ago, I had developed a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). Damn that bastard, H. Anyway, I took care of it accordingly, drank lots of water and cranberry juice, starting on a Friday. Saturday I was still flushing it out. Sunday, however, I was urinating blood. Obviously this is a serious symptom, so I made a mental note to go to the doctor the following business day, as the office is closed on weekends. (Sidenote to keep in mind: My family currently has outstanding medical bills from an accident my brother was in. He's fine, been fine - that kid is made of steel, I tell ya - but, I've been made aware that we are pinching pennies.) Monday comes along, no longer peeing blood, but I decide I still need to go to the doctor for meds after work. I tell this to my mother, as well as the seriousness of the matter, and she gets pissed, raging pissed, that I didn't tell her about it. Apparently she "had the right to know", as if she was the one dealing with it. On top of the UTI, I have also been aware of a suspicious lump on my labia (sorry if it's graphic). I told her that as well, and that pissed her off even more. Long story short, it got physical, she wouldn't let me leave the room, hit me, yelled at me, called me ungrateful and selfish, et cetera et cetera. All of which ended up in me being kicked out of the house due to the "my house, my rules" policy. Apparently, my body and personal health needs to be her business.

Since then, we have spoken, nothing important, mostly about school and what not. I did tell her that I cannot and will not come back unless we see a therapist. After all, she is one of the primary reasons for this damned disease. But I do miss her.

2. The past two nights, I stayed over at H's house because "when the parents are away..." That being said, and to keep things PG-13, he left. Right in the middle. Simply said, "I'll be right back", left the room for a few minutes, then climbed back into bed with his back turned to me. I want to break down and cry just thinking about it. And he doesn't tell me he loves me, only until after I tell him. Really, the only thing I can do right now is to prepare myself for the worst. Cue the depression.

3. I've hit the lowest of the low. Rather than puking into a toilet bowl, I've taken up empty beverage cups and grocery bags from inside my car...in the privacy of my car. I have to feel my own hot vomit in my lap, sitting uncomfortably with the empty 32oz cup between my legs, hunched over it, hoping I don't miss it and get it on my jeans or the seat instead. One word can describe this type of behavior; pathetic.

I am dead to the world for now. Hopefully the cause of death is starvation. Maybe then, at least I'll be pretty. At least I'll be worthy.

I hate this.

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?