My self-destruction is getting worse and worse.

I don't even care about school anymore. I was so looking forward to going, and now I don't fucking care about it at all. The only reason I want to go back right now is because it will allow me to escape this hell they call fast food. It's not the actual workplace I hate -- it's not the coworkers -- it's not even the customers. The part that makes it hell is being surrounded by the shittiest of shit foods all day long, and constantly being tempted by them. These, of course, are temptations I cannot 100% avoid. Occasionally I do have to have onion rings or I go insane. Occasionally I want a breakfast sandwich instead of eggs and toast. Sometimes I get bacon, or sausage, or even hash browns. Once in awhile I buy the burgers with bacon and cheese instead of the ones without. All these "occasionally"s add up the calories, and unfortunately also add up the fat percentage on my body.

My work uniform barely fits anymore. Yesterday was the first day in which I literally had trouble doing it up, and it was tight enough that anything other than superficial movement was very uncomfortable. Once in awhile I could feel the waist digging into me. This is what you must understand about these work pants: Unlike the guys' pants, or some of the other girls' pants (the newer ones and the supervisor pants), these old girls' pants sit RIGHT on the stomach. And I, much to my chagrin, have a body type in which weight, when gained, primarily goes to my stomach and love handles. In other words, I'm gaining weight right where those pants need to fit -- and the tightness of said pants are clearly demonstrating to me how much fat I've accumulated around that part of my body.

I dread the day which I am sure will eventually come when I just can't get the pants done up at all, or it hurts too much to even be bearable. That will be the day I'll have to walk into the office and say to the assistant manager, "Hey, guess what? I'm a fucking fatass, and I need new pants!" Truth be told, if it was financially feasible at all, I'd much rather quit than have to ask for a bigger size of pants. The day I have to ask for new pants is the day that any respect I have for myself goes completely out the window. It will be official, announced to the world, the talk of work gossip: Niika is fat. Niika outgrew her pants. She's such a pig -- she probably gained all that weight from the shit food she's eaten here. Well, I'm sure glad I'm not her... I wouldn't want to be the one gaining all that weight. I wouldn't want to be a gross fatty like she is.

So, you all say, why don't you do something about it? Count your calories... restrict some... exercise more? Exercise will be taken care of, I hope, starting next Tuesday or Wednesday. I can work out at the university's gym basically as much as I want, and I plan to make use of the facilities. Food, though... I CANNOT control my food at all these days. Well, okay, I can, but it only lasts for like half a day or a day or maybe a couple of days before I suddenly snap and eat everything in sight. And usually end up purging at least once. And then usually, after that, continue to fucking eat, only in small enough quantities that I don't have to purge from being ridiculously and absurdly full.

And I think I'm starting to realize why, exactly, none of my attempts at healthy eating, intuitive eating, or even restriction work these days. It is as simple as this: I believe I deserve to suffer. I believe I deserve to be in pain. I deserve, in short, to self-destruct. And what could be more self-destructive than not only abusing food, but by torturing myself with unnecessary weight gain and consequent self-hatred? I mean, losing weight would be a privilege, and I sure as hell don't deserve privilege. I also, glutton that I am, do sometimes like the binging -- like that I can eat any fucking thing I want and get rid of enough of it not to experience extreme stomach pain and distention afterwards. I don't think I actually gain the weight purposely to torture myself, but it sure doesn't help my self-disgust any... or my self-esteem, either, for that matter.

The fact that I am planning to work out like a fiend shows that I truly am fucking fed up with this weight gain and this proliferation of fat on my body (because there really, objectively is too much of it now). The fact that I cannot stop binging / being bulimic really doesn't show anything other than that I hate myself with a passion. So does the fact that I recently started (mildly) self-injuring again. It all ties together. I have this friend who keeps saying, "Fat people just need to stop fucking eating." Well, no shit, Sherlock. But do you think it's actually easy to stop eating? Any easier than telling an anorexic person to just eat a damned sandwich? It's such a bunch of fucking bullshit. But it just proves how little anyone actually understands overeating or bulimia. It's not about the food -- it's about the emotions behind the behaviors. The weight gain or loss is just a side effect of the eating problems, which are manifestations of the emotional problems. (Of course, knowing this does not make me feel even remotely better about my weight gain.)

I just... hate this life I'm living. I can't see any way out of it. I hate this house -- I hate my job -- I don't have any idea if I'm going to even remotely like school or not. I keep thinking about it and picturing myself wandering around campus alone, eating lunches while watching the world walk by me, sitting in at least two out of three classes not talking to a single soul, being too afraid to join LGBTQ, wasting my life trying to attain a goal I can never attain while I'm still so psychologically unsound (becoming a psychologist). The ONLY thing I want to do with my life is be that psychologist, and I'm 99% convinced that I'm never, ever going to become stable enough to do it, and that is because the only psychologist who ever helped me is now somewhere in the United States, and nobody else in this entire province seems to do psychodynamic therapy, which is the only therapy that has ever helped me. I don't need to be taught how to change my thoughts -- I need to fucking deal with my shit, and I can't if nobody will help me to figure out what the hell it even is. My idea of the therapy I would want, if I was to do therapy, is so specific and narrow that I'm not sure anyone could fill it, so nobody can ever help me, so I'll never get to do what I want with my life, so what is the point of even trying? Might as well self-destruct, because that's the only thing I seem to be able to do somewhat consistently.

I am sick, sick, SICK of this shit. I want out. But I can never get out. I have learned that it is not acceptable to try to commit suicide. It is not acceptable to starve myself. It is not acceptable, in fact, to show outwardly that I have any problems. It is not acceptable to hate my life, either, or to hate my job, or to want to do anything other than what is expected of me -- which is to work and/or go to school so that I can get a "real" job. It is not acceptable to do anything my PARENTS don't want me to do. I learned that the hard way, when they forced me into fucking work. I must subliminate myself, or hate and try to maim myself, so that I can "function" in the world. Only I'm starting to not function at all anymore.

It should scare me that I'm starting to throw my life away again, and sometimes it does; but most of the time I really, truly don't believe I even have a life to throw away. This existence is not a real life. It is a half-life, a shadow life; I am a ghost floating around a hazy, empty maze, and all the light and color and vitality and vivacity exists outside the maze, but I cannot even begin to find my way through the twists and turns to become part of the real world. I am forced to sit here, doing nothing, thinking nothing, being motherfucking nothing at all.