It is moments like right now, where I don’t understand the whole support system. I have read and learned that it is pertinent to any recovery, or person trying to obtain recovery, that an individual have some sort of support system in place. Mine is almost non-existent. However, I do feel that I have a few (a very, very few) individuals to lean on, BUT, I cannot, under any situation-no matter how pressing it seems to me- call these few individuals at midnight. Why the fuck would I interrupt their sleep, or night out, with my ridiculous issues? This is when it is the most pressing of an issue. This is when I want to throw up, or run at a ridiculous time at night. This is when I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about how much I ate, and have gained, and it just keeps building up and up and up until I either need to breathe (not possible) or throw every fucking thing I ate today up. RIGHT NOW.
I honestly feel like I have never, in my entire twenty-six-and-a-half-years of life, had someone that I could call about this stupid shit at this late of an hour. Who would want that? It is so utterly ridiculous. I wouldn’t even know what to say anyway.
Hey, I’m sorry I called so late. Were you sleeping? Shit…well….sorry…..good night.
I mean really. Support is a bunch of fucking bologna. And when your mind is this fucking messed up, there isn’t anywhere to turn, except to yourself, and that is the worst. I’m by myself, and I have no where to turn. I have no sounding board. I have no one. Not one single person here who gets it. And I knew this was going to happen. And I knew I would be one fucking wreck. And now I am. A wreck.
I spent the last 72 hours in eating disorder hell. I hate that I couldn’t focus on what my dad was saying at 6:30am because I was so hungry from not eating enough the day before. I resent that people left food here from the birthday party I just threw. Because I ate some of it, and now all I want, all I need, is to get rid of it. I am annoyed at myself, as usual, for every action I have taken in the last 3 days. I feel like I am 13, and I cannot quite escape this hell. Any moment of clarity is overcast with this voice that says; hey, don’t even think about being awesome today, you are not. You must succeed to the highest degree, and when you reach that, it still won’t be good enough, and you will still hate yourself. You will still be unhappy. You still weigh too much.
This is so miserable. Get out. Get. The. Fuck. Out.
But I’ve flipped the switch. And it’s not that easy.