It’s a Tuesday afternoon. I am home alone.
Normally I tell myself the diet will start tomorrow. But not this time; it is starting today. I’m also trying to get it into my head that this cannot and will not be some restrictive and borderline impossible perma-diet, but a lifestyle change.
I am packing for uni. I tried on some clothes and I was appalled. I looked fat, wide, chunky. My legs wobbled, my chest burst out, and my stomach made me look genuinely pregnant it was so bloated. I could hardly look in the mirror. I don’t want to be this person anymore. I loathed myself, and when I looked in the mirror I wanted to escape my body and be free of it. But that’s impossible.
I am so ashamed to write this it’s almost unbearable. Please, please don’t judge me. When everyone went out, I crept downstairs, almost afraid of my own conscience catching me. I felt numb. I got 2 magnums out the freezer, 2 bags of Walkers, 3 bags of Hoola Hoops, a soya dessert, a milkshake, a jam doughnut, some ginger chocolate, a bottle of Fanta and a bowl of Neopolitan ice cream (you don’t know how scary it is writing those foods down. It’s like handing over the murder weapon to the police). I know it’s hard to pity someone who does this to themselves and then complains about it, but it’s my crack. I’m sat on my bed, writing this, loading my body with the vile fats and sugars.
Sure they taste nice. But I am starting to feel lethargic. Sick. Bloated. My skin looks pale, spotty, tired. My eyes look droopy from the sugar rush. Yesterdays make up is stale, my hair is mangled, my teeth aren’t clean and my breath is old. I feel, quite literally, rotten – not fresh, not alive, not young. Who would want to be like this. Who would even want me like this?
I have binged countless times over the past 30 months. (Wow, 30 months… It sounds a lot longer when you put it like that). And almost every single time, I told myself it was the last. This time, this is the last binge. I will no longer have any valid excuse to do this to myself. I am on Prozac and I am getting help, thus this time I will stick it out. I am going to strive to be who I want to be. I am going to have time in the day for the stuff that matters – not the food, the lethargy, the nausea, the pain, the depression and misery and self hatred (aka the bulimia). I will spend my money on things that matter, not on £20 a shot binges.
Last night my mum told me how sad it is that I can’t see how beautiful I am. She said when I’m 40 I’ll look back, realize, and regret. I want to start believing her.
I’ll stop ranting soon. But let me say one thing. I think the key to happiness is confidence – because then you believe in yourself. You believe you’re good enough and therefore mistakes aren’t usually yours and faults can be corrected. The future will be brighter. You’re right, and you don’t need people or things that drag you down because you’re good enough alone.
I hate hating myself.
I promise. I genuinely, honestly promise. This, what I’m doing now, as I write these words. I promise myself, this will be the last binge I have. I am going to try my very best to never, ever do this to myself again. It hurts too much. I feel so ill. So miserable and ugly and too shameful for words. I have promised myself before and then binged again 2 days later but this has to be different, because now I’m getting help and now I am writing a blog for the whole world to see if I screw it up.
I feel so sick right now, but have so much to do. I can’t be like this anymore.
Reader, watch me change.