A Head Full of Beauty

I nearly had a breakdown at work on Tuesday - nearly. I overcame it by eating a bowl of porridge (damn fucking weak). I sat at my desk, mid-afternoon, feeling the anxiety building up in me. My head was reeling, I was so hungry - no I wasn't - I just thought I was hungry - all I'd had was juice and a bowl of vegetable soup - I wasn't hungry. Then the panic set in. Panic about what I'm not sure. I had to get rid of the fat - but how? How! Shit, shit, shit. I was sitting at my desk completely still and yet completely frantic. I had work to do; I had to eat. I stole off to the kitchen and made myself a bowl of porridge, taking it back to my desk to slowly feed it into my body as one would feed a pooly child their medicine. Crisis averted. The highlight of my day is often - believe it or not - lunchtime, when I get to stroll around the City with my two best friends in the office, Rob and Rihanna. It's the highlight of my day for the laughter ...

I love having an eating disorder. I must do. Else why would I do it. You don't do something you don't want to. I didn't want to do my job. I quit. It's easy... If I take the job at the Investment Bank, I'm moving out, I'm going 'back on the crazy, fit men and alcohol' . If I turn the job down, I'm staying here with my Mum, and reading books. I choose to live. Or I choose to stop living. I told my Mum my choices. So after shouting at me for wasting money on rent she has stopped speaking to me and pretends I don't exist. (Yes. This is what I deal with.) If it wasn't for my Mum I'd have jumped. I live so that she doesn't have to bear anymore loss or suffering in her life. But she kills me in another way. Yeah. I never write much about her. I won't now. I want to live, you know. I want it back. I opened up my cupboard and ran my hands through my vast collection of beautiful dresses and clothes. Stacks of shoes, dai...

This is the bare bones: I want to recover. But I want to be thin first. It's been a bad week. Uncontrolled crying. In public. I can't I can't Why can't I get better. Alex. I cried myself sick, over and over again. I couldn't stop it. Crying hysterically in front of everyone and anyone... because of him. Not because he upset me - no. Quite the opposite. He's perfect. And his perfection, his beauty, his innocence, it hurts me so much. I don't know why. Or maybe, it's because I know: I have to end it. I have to. He's killing me. It's all killing me. Starving. Eating. Throwing Up. Binging. Laxatives. Restricting. Exercising. Sick. Sick. Sick I'm supposed to be going to a posh dinner as his guest tomorrow evening. And I can't. I can't. I can't put on a pretty dress that exposes the fat on my back, my huge arms and a tummy that sticks out 5 inches. I can't do my hair nice when it frames such a podgy and puffy...

Well, I have reached my lowest weight for about six months! I am officially back to my pre -Christmas weight! Not entirely a cause for celebration as I was still unhappy before Christmas...but at least I am well and truly on the road of progression! The only slight problem is that I have gone from being a laxative virgin to being slightly addicted...can’t go a day without having at least one BUT my tummy is so gloriously flat! I know that the second I stop taking the little cream-coloured pills I’ll start inflating again and to be honest I’m quite enjoying fitting into all my pretty little dresses in this lovely warm weather! Once I lose another 10 pounds or so, I’ll be able to come off the laxatives without fear of food inside me causing too much of an extra bulge. The current object of my affections, 'C', who I talked about in my last post is not in today, so I’m able to wear a plain red dress and not stress too much about my face – which is just as well because I don’t look ...

Mmm it's not so bad sometimes, is it? And the second I've written that, the tummy rumbles - it is such an attention seeker. Well I'm gonna teach it a lesson by ignoring it's pathetic cries. My fast is still going well and I am still smiling! Instead of raging headaches and wanting to sleep, I just feel really healthy and happy. I had a day off from all activity yesterday. I am a bad, bad person, but to make up for it, I enjoyed a killer session in the gym today. 600 calories on the treadmill alone and then 1,000 metres in the pool. Usually I'm knackered by the time I get into the swimming pool (always my last activity) but today I was just hammering out the laps easily... can't explain it, but certainly not gonna grumble! I've always had severe hangups about the size of my arms and rather than moaning about it, I've taken to spending that little bit extra time in the gym to use all the machines that work out the arms.Even in the last week alone I'v...

Hmm sorry for the last post. I tend to go all crazy, manic, poetic style when I hit the depth of hell. So last night was the biggest breakdown I've had for quite a while... well a least like two months or something? Really did some scary binging, like really 'think my heart and stomach are failing' kinda scary. And like I mentioned in the last post, I went for the horror look with regards to cutting my arms. Jesus Christ. Did my best to throw up all the food again, don't know how much I managed, but I ate so much I doubt it all came out. Just dissolved into tears and curled up in a ball under my duvet. Oh this might have had something to do with an overdue assessment and 'I need to eat to write an essay' and 'I can't write this essay!' Woke up the next morning and had to face a room strewn with wrappers and plates. Really, I ate ALL that?! So here I am, writing my essay ( yay !). I have to get it handed in tomorrow else I fail my whole year... which...

I have an assignment due in 7 hours. I have no intention of getting it done on time. I will hand it in late, like I always do, and be penalised for it. I am in my final year of university now - the most important year or some shit like that. Who knows...who cares. I'm under some sort of perverse illusion that in order to write an essay I need to eat shit loads. So I have eaten shit loads. I do not need to eat for fucks sake! Every day I am making the daily trip to the supermarket. I have no food whatsoever in my flat. I can't have any food around without binging on it - it doesn't matter what it is - I'll cook it, eat it raw, eat it all, not stop. So, every day, ravenously hungry, I go to the supermarket, walking up and down the isles, checking the back of every packet, choosing something, putting it back, wringing my hands in angst. "That nutter girl is back again." Yeah, I just walk up and down your supermarket looking at food because I'm bored and lone...