Let me just barf up all the food you just bought me.

I don't purge very often. Honestly, I'm far too lazy to do it. Laxatives leave me on the toilet the majority of the day, and I get bored with hanging around the house waiting for the explosion to come. Puking is one of my least favorite experiences, and it's difficult to hide in a house full of people that work different schedules.

Last night, my ever so thoughtful boyfriend brought me home an order of onion rings from a night out with the boys at the local bar. I absolutely love those onion rings. 

After I scarfed down half of the ridiculously large serving, I couldn't take it. Sitting in bed next to him, a cardboard box of one of my favorite foods in front of me, and I started bawling. How could I have been so fucking stupid to think, "It's okay. You haven't eaten much in the last few days."? I took off for the bathroom and got rid of it all. My boyfriend just conveniently had to come out to the kitchen to put some bottles in the returnables bin. Then conveniently, walked slowly back to the bedroom, listening to me gag the whole time. He wouldn't say it, but he was mad at me.

His logic is, "just eat". I get it. For normal people, that's perfectly fine logic. You're hungry, eat. You're not hungry, don't eat. 

He held me as I cried, and asked me not to make a habit of it.

I hope I don't.
I hope I can gain enough self control to not be in that situation in the first place.

Thanksgiving is on Thursday with his family.
Dreading the fuck out of it.

Stupid words.

Do you ever consider how odd communication is, on it's most basic level?
We make noises and facial expressions and hand gestures, and it tells other people what we are trying to convey. For most, it's an easy task. You say exactly what you mean at the exact time that you need to say it, and the person understands you.
For me, communication has always been a struggle.

Social anxiety, they all say. It leads to stammering and drawn out sentences that don't necessarily come to a clear conclusion or meaning. Being scared of the person's reaction to what it is that you are trying to communicate. They say that I simply need to be more confident, and speak less about details and more about the main point.

My boyfriend is amazing. For the most part, he knows what I'm trying to express even when it makes little to no sense. He understands my tears, my laughter, and what it means when he comes home to a clean house. He's observant. If he hadn't been in the army for six years and relied on his ability to dissect details, we probably would have many more problems with our relationship.

My words don't work the majority of the time, which leads to more frustration and anxiety about having to say anything at all. I feel confident with children because they aren't as quick to judge, and more than willing to ask for clarification. Anyone else will simply ignore or avoid conversations with me. I have to say that as a supervisor for my job, this doesn't make anyone's life very easy. Sometimes it feels so fucking hopeless, to step back and realize that even though I went into a situation with good intentions and clear thoughts, I walked away confused and embarrassed.

These situations happen most when I'm fasting. When my brain isn't functioning properly, and I can't connect one thought to another with any type of ease.

My mom says it's a lack of protein - that when she's having a spell with her speech, she eats a cheese stick or some nuts, and BAM. She's okay to teach classes.

For me, that's not an option right now. It's like I have to decide whether I'm going to hate the world today for eating, or hate the world today for not eating and the quirks that come with it.

The little worries are coming back. Hand lotion, shampoo and body wash... how many calories am I absorbing? Clothes... are the chemicals and substances they're made out of altering my bodies chemistry, and causing me to retain water? If I make my boyfriend food, am I taking in any of those calories when I touch it?

I hate feeling crazy.
I hate anorexia.

Relapses are such little assholes.

For the last year, I've eaten what I pleased and been able to fight off the voices. I've said "fuck you", to ever thought of worthlessness and self hate. I've eaten when I've felt huge, I've cried when things hurt instead of exercised. I've let someone close enough to fall in love again. I've done big girl things, and gone out with friends. I've been... "normal". 

But here I am, sitting in our bed drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes, wondering exactly how many calories were in that bite of Thai food yesterday.

Relapses are common, I know. After ten years of this bullshit, I know. I've fought it off for so long, but I'm just so tired. So mentally and physically drained from pretending everything is okay, and that I'm not crazy. Talking to myself before eating, trying to convince that part of me that I need nutrition and that I don't need to look up the calories, sugar or fat. I'm tired of seeing my fat in the mirror, and telling myself that I'm beautiful anyway - not believing a word of it. Tired of being told by family and friends that I'm finally at a "healthy" weight.

I beg to ask the question, what the fuck is a healthy weight? In Europe, it sure as hell isn't what it is in the US. In Africa and Afghanistan, it sure as hell isn't the weight in the US. We're fat. We're all so bloody fat. Our standards are sinking, and so is our health (not that I'm starving for health's sake).

None of my clothes fit. I've gone up three sizes in one year. I am at the highest weight I've ever been in my entire life. I've never been this fat. I've never been average. I've always been used in examples of being small, pretty, and put together. I need that back. I need the catcalls, the compliments, the creepers. I feel so alone and worthless without them, as petty as it is. I don't know who I am without that attention. Without people asking if I've eaten, if I've lost more weight, if I'm okay.

I'm not okay.
Not at all.

Not a moment goes by now that I don't have to breathe through another moment of disgust or panic. My clothes are too tight, but I can't buy more because I have a panic attack as soon as I have to choose a size off the rack. So here I am, sitting in a bathrobe completely naked, nervous to get dressed. Nervous to go to work, where people will be eating and I won't. Nervous of being found out again, and having my whole world ripped out from under me.

I'm so tired of living in a society where we have to be okay, all the Goddamn time. We have to smile, we have to laugh, we have to eat, we have to dress nicely, we have to be professional... I just want to hide again. I want to curl up in my own bed, and stay there. I want to feel safe in my bubble of starvation. If I'm hungry, I'm in control.

I'm going back to school.
I'm moving in with my boyfriend.
Christmas and family get-togethers are coming up fast.
I'm constantly busy between work and maintaining a household of 4 men.
I'm always in pain with my neck and back, thanks to the abuse I endured in my previous relationships.
I'm tired.
I'm so, very tired.

So I'll tell myself that this is just temporary, that I'm not really relapsing. That I'm just stressed, and my ways are not really coming back. That I can fight it off again. That I can keep pushing forward. But it's useless, I'm afraid.

I'm tired of fighting, and I'm tired of losing against this evil disease.

I give up.
Welcome back old friend.