I’m purging so much.
I barely keep anything down anymore. And I hate that the pounds aren’t just plummeting off. The world’s going fuzzy. I can hardly think straight. I feel tired all the time. And yet I’m not satisfied. I feel like I have to just keep doing this, have to keep making the food go away, until I am skinnier skinnier skinnier. I will be skinny again.
I have pictures from the last time I got really bad. When I was exercising all the time, when my heart was just barely holding on and my weight was approaching that all-coveted two-digit zone. I want to go there again. I want to be skinnier. I want to be able to feel my ribs without pressing into my skin a little bit. I want to be almost nothing but muscle. I don’t want my thighs to touch. I know that I’m wanting to be unhealthy. Yet I’m still wanting it.
Yet I’m hating that I’m not obviously in trouble yet. I visited a friend from a past treatment today, and when we were saying goodbye, she commented, “I’m glad you’re doing well!”
Well. Really. I seem like I’m doing well. I look healthy. I don’t look sick. I don’t look like I’m having trouble, don’t look like I’m acting out on behaviors, don’t look like I’m going through a mental battle 90% of the day now. I don’t look like anyone need be concerned about me. I don’t look like I need help.
That’s the problem with not being underweight. You don’t look like you have an eating disorder, so people assume you don’t have one. The right to help isn’t there anymore. You’re a healthy weight so you’re fine, right?