I just ate two boxes of muesli bars. I regret every bite. And I want to hurt myself. Bad. Real bad. Because of the whole broken arm deal I can’t exercise-purge tomorrow. I could cycle, but I wouldn’t be able to do it properly. So Ana has plans for us to restrict instead. We won’t be eating tomorrow, or the next day. We will be on a strict restriction diet of fruit, vegetables, coffee, and only foods under x calories. Lots of water, to suppress hunger. Lots of exercise, also to suppress hunger, but to ensure I’m maximising my restrictive efforts too. And this will be until I lose weight, or at least until I can be sure that I am able to feel hungry again, because that means the binge will be compensated for, and everything will be okay again. Then, and only then, will I return to meal plan.
Honestly, probably not even then. I need to lose weight, and only fat people eat six times a day. Only fat people eat chocolate every day. I am currently one of these fat people, but if I stop doing those two things then I will lose weight. Maybe if I was still anorexic, then this meal plan would be okay. But I’m not. If I have done it once, why can’t I do it again? Maybe I’ll succeed in killing myself via starvation this time. Slower than suicide, but still.
Binge eating is an interesting experience because there’s this astute awareness of what’s happening yet also suppression of all thoughts and feelings, as if thoughts and feelings can be suppressed by shovelling in food. It doesn’t work, suffice to say. I feel awful. I always do after binge episodes. It normally triggers self harm, and always some form of compensatory behaviour, which only reinforces the awful feeling because then I feel like a failure for binge eating and also for compensating. So I continue to feel awful, and I’m certain that these episodes only reinforce whatever shitty emotion I am unable to regulate.
But the pattern continues.
When I began binge eating, my body was nutritionally deprived. The primary reason for binging was physiological hunger and recovering from starvation syndrome. As a result of which my body held on to every single calorie for dear life, because fuck knows when it would be fed again.
Now I binge to satisfy emotional abscesses carved into my soul. Or to punish myself for making progress, a form of self-sabotage that I still don’t know the purpose of, or fully understand. Whatever the reason is, I can’t stop. I hate it. I hate that I exist in this mammoth body, when it used to be thin enough to kill me. I hate that I once went days with only the bare minimum to sustain me, and now I struggle to fast for even a day. I hate the money I’m wasting on food that I intend to use over a week or two like a normal (that is to say, non-eating disorder suffering) person and instead eat in a single sitting. I hate everything about bulimia, and I hate that people with this illness are so ashamed to seek help when anorexia is the one held up on a pedestal, because anorexics are visibly sick, like I used to be, like I wish I was. Mostly, I hate myself, and I hate the way my disorder has changed, and I hate the anorexia I’ve left behind.