I've woken up feeling full. Again. I feel awful, and full of unwanted food from last night. I was only able to get rid of half of what I ate, how horrid. The pasta is like a huge stone weighing me down. Today I will not eat. I can't seem to rid myself of what I binge on anymore, so I have to quit with the b/p. I hate this, feeling six pounds heavier than a week ago. I hate this.

They're on to me.

The restroom is messy, the toilet bowl specifically. There's splashes over here, remnants over there, a suspicious smell that hangs in the air. I've been in there at least three times today alone, with the shower on, repeatedly "taking showers". In total, I have eaten two bowls of vanilla ice cream, one of which was topped with Chips Ahoy cookies. I've had two cheesy-scrambled-egg sandwiches on buttered wheat toast. I've had milk and cookies, you guessed it, twice. I had a chicken sandwich with loads of ketchup. Barbecue chips and corn chips. A banana, strawberries and blackberries. All of this accompanied with countless glasses of water.

After I've eaten so much I can't stand without a sharp pain shooting through my stomach, I make my way to my royal throne. The endless cups of water make it easier for it to all come up. I step on the scale, wipe the toilet bowl clean and flush.

Sometimes while driving, I wish that some maniac driver would crash into me, putting me in a hospital bed entangled in tubes and iv drips.

Sometimes while driving on the off-ramp of the freeway, I wish I could just drive off the steep edge, rolling violently down the hill.

Sometimes I wish death were that easy. Instead, here I sit, in an empty shell of a once beautiful, carefree and confident girl. But she already died a long time ago in the burning car, pronounced dead on impact.

"Dude, you are one lucky man," Matt was definitely crossfaded by now and was giving commentary on my relationship, only, he was directing all of this to him. "No really dude. You're so lucky. I mean look at her. I'm jealous you've seen her naked, no offense," directing that last part to me.

"Guys, stop. Please stop," I was drunkenly pleading with Matt as he continued on this strange rant. My boyfriend just sat there, not really responding to anything Matt was saying. I continued to beg and he continued to talk over me, waving his Heinekin beer bottle in my boyfriend's direction. Before I knew it, everyone was adding to the conversation. Mick piped in, "she settled dude. Like, she's totally out of your league. Your lucky man." I had no idea where any of this was coming from. I looked over at my boyfriend with a helpless expression. I felt so mortified that this was the topic of discussion.

Previous to this odd exchange, I was talking with Emily and Kelsey about my relationship with my boyfriend. "I think I love him guys," I professed to them. "I always find myself about to word vomit. All the time." That's when he came in, right as we were talking about him, talking about something serious. Then Matt followed and went off on that strange rant.

But I do find myself thinking that I love him. Apparently there's a difference between loving someone and being IN LOVE with them, which I don't see. And that could possibly mean that maybe I'm not ready to love someone, tell them that I do, or maybe that what I'm feeling is being confused with something else. I'm not sure. What I do know is that I could see myself spending a lot of time with him. I could see myself in the future with him, in another city, enjoying each other. I can see it. Then again, I do have a tendency to jinx things.

I hate this feeling, being alone. I'm sitting here in the dark, fully armed with potato chips and crackers, bagels and cookies, anything I can find. I'm sitting here with a big glass of water, gulping it down in between mouthfuls while watching stick figure actresses online. Every day has become a b/p day, but today is officially bad. I don't want to see my boyfriend. I'd rather sit here and make myself sick. How selfish is that. I feel terrible.

As I sat Mother's Day dinner, after the waitress brought out the bread, after I helped myself to a third slice, I realized I had a problem. Never-ending bread baskets, platefuls of pasta, sugary desserts. But I realized I had a problem controlling my urge to eat came to me as I buttered the bread.
"Don't fill up on the bread," my father said. My mouth was too full of butter and carbs to respond. I took a big gulp from my water glass, remembering the pattern: bite of food, drink water, bite of food, drink water. I laid my hands in my lap, fidgeting, contemplating another piece of bread. Conversations were flying back and forth across the table. Finally, I gave into Mia. 'One more won't hurt', she whispered softly into my hear. I knew I'd be taking care of it later.