Not eating feels like what dying must feel like. Why is making dinner so hard? 

One time in the middle of another time getting caught lying about what I’d eaten, my dad, angry and frustrated, said; You’re too smart for this. 

These nights of getting caught in a lie always ended up with me being grounded, and the entire conversation was focused on the fact that I had lied. We never talked about what was really going on. And I was ok with that; in the end, that is exactly what I wanted. If we didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t a real problem. Lying was clearly my problem. 

Things don’t feel real to me right now. I know that the end of this road is, literally, death. No number is a good number. I can always weigh less. I know that goal weights are fictional numbers designed to merely be place holders. Little gold stars that represent just enough success to keep going. 

I know these head games I’m playing. You’re still eating avocado and peanut butter. So you’re fine. 

I almost had a heart attack when I broke the coffee maker today. I know that it’s extremely trying to get through the day and remain motivated on little sustenance and no caffeine. 

I think that’s something the whole world doesn’t get: it doesn’t have anything to do with how intelligent you are. 

I am more aware of what is going on and what I am doing than I can stand. It drives me insane to not understand why I can’t stop.  

I wake up and pretend nothing is going on. I lie to myself and every single person who asks me how I am. At this point, I can’t tell if I’m doing a really great job of hanging on to health, or if I’m in the beginning or even middle of a trip down the rabbit hole. 

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