Christmas is a fucking shitty time for bulimics. Or a glorious, bountiful time, I suppose, depending on how you look at it... but it's been a bit of a horror story for me this year.

My throat is sore as hell.
My stomach hurts.
My cheeks are beginning to resemble small blimps.
I'm convinced I've gained ten thousand pounds.

Oh, bulimia, how I loathe thee. But I'd've loathed it more if I'd had to keep down those gargantuan binges.

Maybe I'm sick of holding on

Is it an eating disorder behavior when you're okay with eating food, and in enough amounts to satisfy you (or so you think anyway), but you're only okay with eating certain KINDS of food? As in, you have a fairly short list of safe foods, which are foods you usually use to restrict with, but you're okay with eating enough of them?

It makes me sad when I abuse my body by eating too much -- always feeling bloated and never feeling really, truly hungry.


It makes me sad when I abuse my body by eating too little -- always feeling empty and on the point of eating everything, and drinking gallons of Diet Pepsi and water and decaf/coffee to cover up the fact that I never feel really, truly full.

++++++++++

There has to be a happy medium somewhere. There just fucking HAS to be. A medium that allows for mistakes -- a medium that allows freedom and happiness in food choices -- a medium that allows for, god forbid, weight fluctuations.

Maybe I will gain weight at the outset of this. Maybe that's the way it's going to have to be. Maybe my disordered brain will make me gain, or lose, or fluctuate wildly (and, honestly, the first or the last are more likely). Maybe I'm just going to have to fucking deal with it, instead of fantasizing about restriction and control and how I can exercise all I like when university comes and I won't be forced to eat at work anymore and, dammit, I can get to that 100 lbs, that "magic" number which seems so ideal and yet so mystically elusive. The scale as a god.

But the scale is not a god. The scale is a piece of machinery that spits out how much force I exert on this planet with my physical presence. It is a tool -- a measurement device -- nothing more. Admittedly, it is something that used to be able to make or break an entire day or week or month for me... and it still can, sometimes. But it is NOT a god, and I should not worship it as if it was. There are many far more deserving things in this universe to worship.

So I exert a certain force on this planet. So maybe I exert more force than I would like. So fucking what? At least I'm HERE, and not dead, and not locked up in a psychiatric ward for the fifty thousandth time. The rest... the rest I can work on. But I am not a slave to those old bonds anymore, and maybe I should actually try to stay free of them, instead of running headlong towards the safe, comfortable, destructive, lonely, horrible fucking entity known as Mental Illness. When has that ever worked for me in the past? Seriously, Niika. Get a fucking grip. That image in your head -- that idea you have that everything would be all right once you lost some more weight -- it's never going to fucking happen.

I need to focus more on health and less on the number on a piece of metal.

Pieces of metal are stupid anyway.

"Eating is normal. It is not a shameful activity that only fatties engage in.

Sadly, I do have to keep reminding myself of that."

From here.


It's so true, though. It really is.

In moods like this I don't care about anything. I don't care about work, or the fact that school's coming up, or Christmas, or friends, or existing. Nothing. I just want to lay down and... not exist anymore. Or sleep. I mean, I know I'm tired. But I'm tired so fucking often lately. It's no wonder I was starting to become a caffeine addict (before I abruptly pulled myself off it) -- caffeine is the one thing that keeps me from feeling tired. Well, that and sugar. Hence all the overeating urges I seem to get. But I already talked about that yesterday.

Why does life have to be so fucking hard all the time now?

Who do you talk to when you have nobody to talk to at all?

I feel horribly, utterly alone so often these days. Not a single person around me understands, and I don't think they ever can or ever will.

I have also discovered that depression turns me into a compulsive overeater, which makes me slowly but surely gain weight, which makes me unhappy, which contributes to my depression, which of course just fuels this whole fucking cycle all over again. Fuck shit fuck.

Why can't I just be happy with being normal? Why can't I just be happy, period? Why does my brain have to be so fucked up?

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