I binged yesterday. “The final time”, I said.
Here I am. Craving my drug. It’s gone midday and I still haven’t eaten. I’m not planning to just yet either.
I cannot give in because as of today I have to monitor everything that passes my lips for the specialists to see. And I cannot let them see the disgrace of my binges.
I can’t focus on anything. I am going home later because I can’t seem to hack it on my own.
I am fucking 20, I am meant to be independent, and here I am running back every weekend. But this is genuinely one of the hardest things I have ever had to do and I guess I should do whatever it takes to get me through.
I want to meet the future me, the recovered me, the one who hasn’t got an ED. I want to see that this is all worthwhile because it doesn’t feel like it. I feel like I am dying inside, I am not human, I am being broken apart by this illness. The continual fight with it is soul destroying, I don’t know who I am anymore. Just a mess who is addicted to food.
See, there are alcoholics, drug addicts, smokers. But they can all out avoid their substance. But I cannot live without food, I can’t function on air alone, so have to eat. It’s like giving an alcoholic three shots of vodka a day but saying “nope, no more for you”. Three cigarettes to someone who is addicted to twenty-a-day. This is so hard.
I was walking home from uni yesterday, and sitting at the bus stop was an elderly man. His hair was grey and his tracksuit was slipping of his slouching shoulder. A newspaper was being sustained in his weak and semi-conscious grip, and next to him was a can of beer. His head hung low and his eyes were drooping closed. Clearly out of it, clearly an alcoholic. And I think for the first time in my entire life I sympathised. I have always pitied, in an almost patronising way, thinking poor sod. But yesterday I felt like we were in the same boat, fighting waves that threw us off balance every single fucking day. Addiction ruled our lives. Sure, mine was much less renowned for being an addiction; people don’t see bulimia as an addiction. But it is. And he sat there in the public eye, shamed by the fact he was blatantly killing himself with toxins. And there was me, walking home with a bag loaded with crap and junk food, a heavy weight stuck in the palm of my hand that I couldn’t bring myself to drop. I wanted to sit with him, talk with him, tell him I sort of (not 100% nonetheless) understood.
But I walked home, and ate like the greedy bitch I am.