AUGUST THIRTYFIRST TWO THOUSAND NINE

I told myself I wasn't going to eat anything today. And not half an hour later, I've downed a fudge bar, an ice cream bar (which, in my defense, I THOUGHT was a fudge bar. They have the same wrapper, and I was about two bites in before I figured it out. Buh.) two cans of tuna, and some relish. Well goddammit, me. So much for no barfing today. Ack.

The roommate wants me to go to a mutual friend's house tonight. Which would be alright, except for the fact that this girl always has a TON of food at her place. I'm talking shelves upon shelves of food. And as my roommate put it,

"Going to her house almost always means pizza."

Which, okay, I love pizza, don't get me wrong. But I have this horrible tendency to eat a couple pizzas (not SLICES, PIZZAS.) in one sitting. And afterwards I usually move on to bigger and better binge food. This wouldn't be such a problem if I wasn't going to be surrounded by grocery-store quantities of prime junk food. Which is just a panic attack waiting to happen. I can just envision myself huddled in the corner of her kitchen with an open box of Knotts Fruit Pies, knee-deep in a carton of Rocky Road, taking breaks only to hoover chocolate-covered pretzels in my mouth. All while my friends are unsuspectingly watching Grandma's Boy in the next room. The next morning, this girl's poor roommate would wander out to the kitchen, only to find remnants of The Great Hostess Massacre of 2009. Which she would undoubtedly blame on my friend, who, let's be honest, would probably be so confused she would end up taking the fall.

It's idiotic how far my imagination gets away from me.

Or, I could just NOT go.

But shit.

Who turns down free pizza?

AUGUST TWENTY FIRST TWO THOUSAND NINE

Today, a friend came over with his new boyfriend. Friend Eric said, "I'm hungry." to which his new boyfriend responded, "BUT YOU ATE A WHOLE PIZZA!"

My response was, "Hey, I do that too but at least I have the decency to throw it back up."

I wish I could say I'm laughing wild amidst severest woe, but I really just think I'm losing my mind.

I'm sick of lying, more than anything. I'm sick of pretending that I'm making miraculous strides in my pathetic recovery to my friends and family.

"I'm feeling healthier and healthier every day!" and, "I'm really starting to feel like ME again!"

Well guess what, loving and supportive family? That ME you're so eager to re-establish doesn't exist. And quite frankly I'm unsure if it ever did. As far as I can tell, I've been this way all my life, in one facet or another. I've always had eating disordered behavior. From hoarding food as a six year old to chewing and spitting pizza at my best friend Erin's eleventh birthday party, I've never had a healthy, decent relationship with food. I have, however, had a pretty solid relationship with run-on sentences. And improper spelling.

There I go again, using what my therapist called "distractive humor". That might be why I don't see her anymore. Because she was too right. Freaked me out. I don't see my nutritionist anymore because she was a vapid whore, and I don't see my psychiatrist because she cut me off my klonopin and adderall. She said I was using them as a crutch in my recovery. Well..... duh.

The boyfriend comes home from Iowa tonight. Huh. Don't know how I feel about it. I'm not looking forward to being asked what I was doing in the bathroom every. single. time. I don't care if I was puking. It makes me feel like a child. And clearly I know EXACTLY how my highly successful recover should go, pah. But anyway. Having him gone was nice in the eating disorder sense, and also nice in the sense that he got on my nerves. I swear half the time he couldn't care less about my recovery, as long as I don't end up in the hospital againt o inconvenience his plans for that week. The rest of the time he's on me like a hawk. Ugh. But that's a whole new bag of beans.

I'm trying guided meditation as a means to curb addiction. So far, it's no working. But it's only been two days. I'll give the Dalai Lama time to prove himself I guess.

I don't even know anymore.

AUGUST FIFTEENTH TWOTHOUSAND NINE

I feel like a gay man that's just all of a sudden decided he is going to try and like vagina. Does. Not. Compute. Everything I see, food or not, reminds me of my eating disorder. Every single waking moment is FULL of food, barf, food, barf, sleep.

For example:

My lovely roommate bought me an American Apparel skirt off the clearance rack. It's really cute and everything, but it's too LONG. And normally I like long skirts to cover up my big ol' knees, but I can't purge in this skirt. It's ankle length, so I'm surely going to trip over it when I go to kneel over the toilet. And it's going to slip and I'm going to hit my chin on the rim of the bowl (again). Since my eating disorder is more important to me than the adorable and thoughtfulk gift my friend gave me, I simply MUST return it.

So I did. She told me this morning that she wants to wear our matching American Apparel skirts to my family barbeque on Tueday. I told her that would make us look like lesbians. And while this is slightly true, the fact that we are twentysomethings that live together and go to each other's family barbeques is a little bit more lesbonic than wearing the same style skirt out and about.

I'm a bad person.

AUGUST THIRTEENTH TWO THOUSAND NINE

My therapist told me I need to hold myself accountable. Actually, everyone on my treatment team tell me I need to stop lying to people when I tell them why I am sick. Honestly? I don't think people would believe me. But oh well.

Friday, August 13th 2009 marks Day One of Serious Bulimia Recovery. Two times in treatment haven't worked, mostly because I have this fabulous habit of not listening to advice that I don't like. But I'm trying anyway, and I'm not quite sure why.

My "S" key is broken.

Here we go.

AUGUST 13, 2009

8:30 am Day one of serious bulimia recovery. No more puking. No more lying. Until I discovered a picture of boyfriend at his first wedding, kissing his whore of an ex wife. Readily available in my pantie drawer. This means two things: One, I clearly never wear panties, and Two, uhh, Two is that there is a picture of my BOYFRIEND kissing someone else. In the drawer of unmentionables. Tostitos have suffered the consequences. Well, one more time won't hurt, right? This is going to be harder than I thought.

11:30 am Lunch with my father. Telling myself I won't puke afterwards. We have been going to the same restaurant every Friday for six years, and if accomplished, this will be the first time I don't hork it up immediately afterward.

1:30 pm ALL of my thoughts are about vomit. I'm at work. After successfully keeping my cobb salad down for an hour. Can't stop thinking about it.

"Hi, welcome to Clinique, how may I barf you?"

This is excruciating. Cue zen breathing here. Except, every time I go to do my deep breathing, I inhale old lady perfume and want to throw up anyway.

5:00 pm And so we begin yet another glorious anxiety attack. I have never kept down leftovers IN MY LIFE. They are usually prime binge/purge material. I'm apparently jumping right into the fire here. I will not purge, I will not purge.

6:00 pm I'm starting over tommorow. Remind me to not think about how pathetic I am.


Hopefully today is better. Hopefully today I'm funnier. Maybe if I have time I'll update my profile. Probably not.