I need... help. I need intervention. I don't know. I just know that I need something more than what I have. And this entry is the only way I can think of to reach out right now.

Warning: What follows may be TRIGGERING.


I am sick of comfort eating, of eating and eating and eating until I am so stuffed that I feel sick -- physically, awfully sick. Not sick enough that I could vomit automatically, but sick enough that if I don't force myself to vomit, I will probably stay sick as a dog and stuffed as a pig (gotta love the animal analogies) for hours and hours on end. I am sick of the fact that I eat so much that vomiting is the ONLY way to make myself feel physically better at all.

I'm not kidding myself anymore about the motivations. It's the food I want. It's this incessant need to taste sweet things -- this practically uncontrollable urge to always be putting wonderful-tasting confections in my mouth, to have them on my lips and tongue, to chew them and swallow them and feel them go down my throat -- which is at the heart of all of this. Instead of being about the purging, like it used to be, it is about the binging. Completely and entirely. Food is like the one constant, always-on-hand comfort I have, and I abuse and exploit it, along with my body and head, seemingly incessantly these days.

When I am binging, intuitive eating gets thrown out the window. There is not even remotely enough room in my stomach to fit all the foods my mind and tongue desire. It is my mind mostly, though... I'm not kidding myself about that either. It's my brain's desires which drive the mouth's motions and which therefore fill the stomach up. It is something mental. My body is satisfied with far less, sometimes, than even normalized eating says I need. My mind, though, tells me the body needs more to survive -- and then, later, my mind tells me the mouth and tongue need more even than that, in order for me to cope. It wants to live, to prevail, instead of merely to survive. Only the mind is lying to me, and driving me further into this stupid, heinous, hideous, horrendous disorder. (Alliteration with the letter H is weird.) This is not a good way to deal, although my mind tells me it is. This is not okay, and it WILL eventually hurt me more than help me, even though my mind would claim differently on both counts.

I am at a loss about what to do. I see my psychologist on November 1st, but I don't know if she'll know what to do, either. I mean, she hasn't helped me that much before. But... I am at a loss. Seeing her is the only thing I can think of that might even remotely help. Otherwise, I have no supports whatsoever. Read: Zero supportive contacts. Not a single person I can talk to. Not a single person I can call up and spill my guts to. I've been hiding this from everybody, because I haven't thought of it is as a problem, or as even remotely worth anyone's attention. But I do not know what. To. DO. I just don't know anymore. I have no fucking idea. My head is separating me from the ground, from reality, as the result of yet another stupid purge; and I do not know how to tether myself here, or what the hell is wrong with me in the first place that I cannot find a consistent place in a healthy life.

I do not know why I feel that I must be disordered in order to be worthy of anyone's attention -- why I feel that I will fade into the background, ignored and forgotten, unless I am nursing some sort of private drama and pain. Why I feel that I am not really alive unless I harbor a deep, dark secret. Why this sort of shit is the only thing that gives any meaning whatsoever to my life. Why I so totally lack a sense of self that I will try anything that seems like it will force me to have to work my way upwards and onwards. I don't know if that last is clear, so let me try to reword it. I do not have any faith whatsoever that I would be successful in a "normal" endeavor, so instead of trying to achieve success in the real world, I instead try to achieve success in being disordered -- or, when I get sick of that, I try to achieve success in recovery from the disorder. But once I achieve people's respect and admiration in yet another "recovery", I have two choices: either do something really really awesome with my life, and continue to be a person worthy of real respect and real admiration, or do something to dig myself deeper into one or more disorders, so that when people eventually find out, they will... help me somehow? But with what?? I don't know. I don't fucking know.

The one thing I do know is that this whole spiel makes me sound like the world's biggest attention whore; but that's not what this feels like, not at all. There is something cheap and shallow and petty about the words "attention whore"; but whatever it is I am trying to make people understand is anything but shallow or petty. Whatever it is is the most essential and real and vital thing in the world to me -- if only I or anyone else could actually figure out what the fuck it is. Which nobody can... not anymore. My first therapist was the only person who even began to approach it; and we were just getting to some of the core issues, I firmly believe, when I had to go away from her forever.

Does this entry even make sense anymore?


Fuck.