I’m getting sooo much better, and I’ve only been here for 10 days! Although I was reaally reluctant at the first 2-3 days (I purged in the dining room, fought with the treatment lady, broke the scale and tried to escape, haha), I’ve quickly adapted with the new rules - I made friends with a great English girl, Michelle, who has EDNOS, I sleep 9 hours without interruption, I get to go to dance class and I am actually losing weight and becoming healthy-looking (all supervised)! Recovery is great - once I’ve stopped purging, my face got its colour back, my tummy is flat (it was consantly bloated) and I have sooo much energy, I’m bubbly and talkative.

Of course, it is hard. I sometimes cry during meals, I beat and scratch myself, but I push myself. Because I know I can’t be like this. It’s worth it - I’m worth it.

inadequate-yet-immoderate:

A monster, thats hunger is never satisfied, no matter how many cookies or cheese slices or bowls of pasta you eat. You eat you eat you eat, until you feel as though your stomach is ripping at its seams, the pain, though excruciating, is pittance compared to the mental agony of the war inside your head; “You shouldn’t have eaten that. Pig. Ugly, greedy, nasty, fat fucking PIG”. 
How to alleviate the pressure that is building, both in your gut and in your mind? Easy. Make yourself sick. Bone-white fingers clutching the edges of the bowl, as you steel yourself for what you are about to do, fighting against a survival instinct that is screaming at you to stop. Ignore it. Kneel before the porcelain god, an eerie melody echoes off the tiled walls; “Come now child, atone for your sins, make right what you have wronged, pay your dues”. Stick your fingers/your toothbrush/a spoon down your throat, until the feeling of your weapon of choice tickling the top of your stomach, and your gag reflex causes you to cough.  And splutter and wretch and heave and choke, on the filth pouring from you mouth, as, one by one, the foods you don’t even remember eating in your desperate haste to fill a bottomless pit, spill out in reverse order. Smile, weakly, as you feel your heartbeat thudding in your ears (it has left your chest), and as the mottled vomit states back at you. 
Stand up, too quickly, your fingers scrabbling against the wall as they fail to secure a grip that would stop you falling, once again, to your now-bruised knees. Take a deep breath. Gag, as the vile odor you just inhaled cause you to be involuntarily sick, once more. Panic hits you, as bile shot with crimson joins the mess in the bowl. Laugh, as you realise there is no food left inside of you, that you are once again empty, calm, clean. 
Spit the bitter acid from your mouth, rise to your feet (slowly this time, stupid bitch), flush once, twice, three times for luck. Check underneath the rim, the edges of the bowl, the floor, the walls (spattered with gore from the force of your frantic heaving). Flush again. Stumble into the bathroom (the bright lights hurt your eyes), turn on the tap and just stare at the steam of running water for a while- you have floated somewhere outside of yourself, and do not feel quite real. Come back down to earth (or hell, as it were), and rinse the rot from your mouth, brush your teeth until your gums bleed. Wipe the snot from your face, the tears from your (bloodshot) eyes, and smile sadly, as you cling to the knowledge that this is slowly killing you. 
Tell yourself you will never do this again. Hate yourself for knowing this is a lie. This wont be the last time, no matter how dearly you wish it were. You’re on a speeding train that, even if you wanted to jump off, you would shatter into a thousand pieces upon grounds unknown. It’s better to sit tight, “Enjoy the ride” the snide voice whispers, as you sit “safe”, in the confines of familiarity, the lesser of two evils, if you wish. 
This disease is a monster, a monster that scares you, controls you, IS you. How do you escape yourself? No matter how fast, nor far you run, whoever you go, there you are. And there it is, a leach, a parasite, that has fed off of you (ha) for so long, that you do not know where it ends, and where you begin. Entrenched and enmeshed, to the point where your disease doesn’t just describe you; “I have Bulimia”, but it defines you; “I am Bulimic”.

I am a monster.