Now he’s leaving earlier. On the first plane. I froze inside when he told me and forced an outward appearance of normalcy. “Are you serious? Well, that’s okay,” I said. “Does that mean you’ll come home on the first plane back?” Of course his answer was no.

I ate away my anxiousness last week. I am sure I gained all the weight I lost right back. Maybe even more. I stopped stepping on the scale entirely after the first 5 pounds were gained back. I’m too frightened to see the number. I royally fucked up my digestive system during my month-long relapse, and am now paying for it just from eating like a normal person. And drinking like a college student.

I hate this head-case torment. One of the worst things about an eating disorder is when you look normal but feel anything but. I am thinking like a person with an eating disorder but I am pretty certain I look like an average-weight, 20-something, who maybe exercises every now and then.

I don’t want to look like that at all. I want to look like a long distance runner.

I don’t want him to leave for 9 (or 10 or 11 or 12) months. I am already so, so sad. I don’t want to do everything by myself. I don’t want to wake up on Sunday and be alone all day long. I don’t want to force girls nights because we’re all lonely. I don’t want to be caught in an anxious web of loneliness  eating disorder behavior, and depression.

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