I’m waiting for the medication to knock me out as I write this.
I don’t know. I’m tired of being stressed about school all the time. I’ll never be able to please my lecturers. I’ll never be good enough for good grades. I’ll never make my parents happy. I’ll never satisfy the mirror. I’ll never…
I don’t really care that I’ll never everything.
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care. I don’t give a flying unicorn.
I just want to hide away because reality sucks. Just like how I always retreated into my mind with my imagination, and sometimes with books when I was young. Reality sucks so much now I’m afraid to take in fresh air with undivided attention. I’m afraid to take in anything. That’s why I have my numbers to count when I’m anxious; my eating disorder to keep me distracted from everything because everything is bad. The thing is, although the eating order keeps me company and keeps all the bad at bay, it can easily turn against me.
Today I finally imploded. I inhaled food and more food and even more. The amount I binged-purged on is incomparable to last year but it’s calorific nevertheless. It was all unplanned and uncontrolled. I thought I was finally safe for a day and then, it happened. And then again. Later, a third time.
The first time I heard the voice say, welcome back.
Bulimia reared it’s ugly head and I thought, no. This stops now.
The third time I heard her say, it feels good doesn’t it as I took another bite into eggs and cheese and rye bread. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a sandwich like that before. Over summer break, I realised despite my love for food becoming disordered, there’s so much that I have never tasted.
I’m sick of everything. Nothing comforts me. I know the eating disorder doesn’t either. Not really. But it’s the only thing that I can try with. It protects me, hurt me, beautify me, satisfy me, deny me… as long as I can stay away from binging and purging because that brings out the meanest and most relentless side of the disorder. Purging is bad. Mono binging and mono bps are worst. Regular binging-purging is the worst. It knows me inside out. It’s a plaything I can take out any time. It’s there when I cry sorrowful. If I do it right, I can feel like I do on alcohol but without the high. The disorder is probably the closest I can get to suicide and death. Do I even make any sense anymore? I’m not even thinking. Am I? I don’t know. I try not to think most days.
Medication. Is knocking me out.