It’s been officially 3 months since my ex-boyfriend threw out my designated puke bowl (literally gross I know, but Bulimia isn’t pretty) and my scales that I used to weigh myself obsessively. True to my word, I stopped binging and purging that day to save my relationship with him. I loved him more than my eating disorder. More than myself even. But that is the past.
Last week I purged. Three times to be exact. Four more times since Sunday alone.
I should stop. Logically I know that. I feel myself slipping into the darkness again. Except for this time I’m running back, diving head first into it because for some sick reason, Bulimia comforts me like no boy ever could. When I had no one, nothing going for me….I had comfort in dieting, routine in purging, safety in my own twisted head. I hate it and I love it.
I shouldn’t enjoy knowing that this path will lead to me being sick again. I shouldn’t enjoy starving and puking. But I do.
You know what else bulimia leads me to? Being thin, and in case you haven’t heard, thin is in boys and girls.
I am not okay. Ever. I run back to my self-harming behaviors like an abused wife runs back to her abusive husband. It seems I can’t get enough of my own fucking abuse.
Sobriety means jack shit when you puke up your food ten minutes after you eat. Sick is sick, and folks, I’m terminal.