I baked fine. I didn’t binge. But that was a couple of days ago now. And now?
I am sorry.
I am sorry to you, to me, to everyone around me. But especially to me.
I haven’t quite come to terms yet with the fact I have given in.
Is this a part of me? A part that I have to accept, a weight that I (quite literally) have to learn to carry, a burden? Have I got to learn to adapt to hating myself; loathing myself and feeling inadequate and being scared to leave the house? Being scared of independence?
The past couple of days I genuinely started to think I was coming out the other side of this illness.
I thought something was changing. I had a day out with my boyfriend (I came home for the weekend), and I didn’t want to diet. I didn’t want to be going about the day emotionally chained to a rotten, dank, prison wall, encaptured by this disgusting ED inside me. So, I thought, I won’t count today. But I won’t binge.
Fine. Great. Healthier than counting even. More functional, more normal.
But the fact is the food I ate kicked me in the head. It pulled a trigger than caused the cravings and thoughts and possibility of a binge to go quivering through my whole system of self and bulimia. I was like a suicidal individual who chose to put a gun to their head believing they wouldn’t pull the trigger. A self-harm addict holding the knife, pressing it’s cold and shimmering blade against their skin, believing they wouldn’t draw blood from themselves; feeling it touch them but believing they could still be numb to its existence.
No, of course they couldn’t.
I am trying to tell you I binged.
I want somebody to tell me I’ll be okay. Somebody, anybody, tell me I am going to come out the other side of this illness a healthy and fully functioning individual. Let this be just a phase of my life that I look back on and roll my eyes. Or have the occasional nightmare about. Or occasional rebound that lasts no more than a day or two.
I am scared.
When I wake up tomorrow I am going to hate myself even more than I do right now and I don’t know if I’ll make it to bed without fucking up all over again, because like dominos one binge leads to another.
I have to be strong. Stronger than I am now, stronger than this. I am revolting. I am such a mess.
Today I looked at my bf, looked at the sun reflecting from his deep green eyes that were looking joyful for living in the moment, and I thought any minute. Any minute now. Any minute now we could die. Just like that be dead and gone forever and never come back. Why cant I just enjoy myself? I masked my feelings with a smile. But even with such seemingly depressing thoughts, I felt so happy.
Similarly yesterday this overwhelming feeling of calm came over me for a while. Everything was beautiful, everything was fine, everything was how it should be. I was a person, an entity. A being. I was alive and had every right to be. I realised that being happy wasn’t food, wasn’t achieving good grades, wasn’t going for days out, wasn’t buying materialistic possessions. Being happy (prepare for the cliché) was around me; it was living in a happy mind and seeing through happy eyes. It was optimism. Nothing could make you happy, you could only think happy.
Today, I imagined (only imagined; I wouldn’t in a million years do it), what would it be like to throw yourself on the train line? I envisaged holding arms up as to throw every weight from my shoulders, eyes closed, sunlight washing anything from behind me so I was just the silhouette of suicide. I’d imagine, as I prepared for death, being a passenger on that train in the calm, with sun beams painting the countryside with flecks of impossible beauty. Vision blocked by bravery, the only indication of the fast approaching end was the trains shudders as it approached, horrified but unable to stop. Then smash; death.
No, I don’t want that. I have too much love in this world to want to do that.
I’ll post again. I won’t stop posting because this is my only form of solitude anymore. For now, let me be.