Binging 1-3 days a week, eating “normally” whatever that means these days.
Weight is stable, within normal range.
Start therapy next week.
Applying for university. Studying after work.
Got a girlfriend, seeing friends a few times a week.
Dreaming or fire, thunderstorms, shattered mirrors, broken glass.
Walking with my arms hugged tight around my stomach in case I fly apart, thoughts and memories scattered in the breeze.
Smoking all day, pushing myself at the gym in the evening, feeling the burn, it has to hurt or it didn’t happen. I didn’t try hard enough. I’LL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH.
Drinking in the evening, anything to help choke down dinner better. Anything to make the whirling, raging voices go away. Anything for quiet. Please.
Want to quit work. Just stop, go do my own thing. Hide somewhere warm and cosy where hunger doesn’t hurt and muscles don’t ache.
I want to have the guts to punch my boss in the balls if he mentions how shaggable I am, how nice my arse is, if I’m horny yet.
There is too much rage and hurt and pain inside and I don’t know how to get it out.
My life seems limitless, and fantastic, and terrifying and restricted all at the same time.
I wish I could turn back the clock and make myself see that there was nothing wrong with me. That food was not the answer, or the problem. And that the burning, choking, smothering hurt and sadness was not my fault, and not because I wasn’t good enough, or brave or strong or fast enough.
I wish someone had told me how much this would hurt. How life isn’t sunshine, and joy, and peace. That ying and yang exist for a reason. That you need sadness to feel happiness and love to feel anger.
I thought recovery was supposed to heal. Not rip you apart