Mental disorders, such a bitch. You will never know to take it seriously or not, when every signs may be resulted in something so crucial, so painful, but it also could just mean that you needed another cup of coffee. I am torn, has always been, but some days are just colder than others so the wounds spike up above the average tolerance level.
I always tell myself that I am a recovered bulimic, and emphasis on the word "recovered", because for me it is more than a state of mind, it is a promise of mine to me, to "just be clear" that I have gotten over "it". It happened, it sucks, but it is a thing in the past now, and although I am proud of myself for living through one hell like that, I know that it shaken my life so bad, I can never be as "innocent" as i once was.
A friend once told me, she doesn't believe in "true recovery". She said you relapsed once in awhile, just that where do you go from there. I didn't agree at first, because I know I have recovered, I am the living example that once can truly move on, but apparently I spoke too soon.
I hate it now that I woke up every morning with thoughts about food. Bad thoughts, good thoughts, spinning, circling my brain every minute of the day. Sometimes I wonder, why the fuck am I so concerned with such a mundane thing, just go out and eat like a normal human, it is so simple. Some other times, I caught myself screaming at loved ones for not being understanding when I can't share a meal with them, because I am afraid once I start to eat, I would not be able to stop.
Years into recovery, I found myself at a normal, healthy weight again. Thoughts about this, like everything else, is completely mixed. I feel much much healthier physically, and I appreciate that I could do all the things I couldn't when I was sick, but at the same times I feel lost, like I have just been thrown into another bag of meat that wasn't my own, and I feel so extremely uncomfortable with this body I feel ill.
Nights I lay in bed, stretching and cocooning and kicking and hugging myself, trying to own the skin I'm in. I know that this thing consists 70% water and blood and bones and neurons and muscles, but the urge to poke it open so the fats I KNOW that is drowning me inside can ooze out is so strong I can't breath. I don't know who is the real me anymore, the one who is sobbing and fighting, or the one that is being crushed to death inside all these layers of meat.
I feel disgusted, to say the least.
People around me being normal is the freakiest trigger. Walking around casually complaining about their new diet. Walking around telling friends they are fat. Walking around looking at photoshopped human and said " I wish I look like that".
Normal human who tells me "You are so healthy now I'm proud". Normal humans who grab my arms and say " Finally you are not all bones again". Normal human who just have to say shits about my weight, gain or lose.
I feel like I am lying now if I say I no longer have issues with food. I know that I have to get through this again, no matter how hard it is, not for myself but for many people who care about me too. Girls around with their EDs, always tell me how I am inspiring them to recover, and they say if I can they can too. What will they say now? I just have to do this, I just have to.
How is the questions. Will it be easier the second time around? Last time, I was all alone, but now I am surrounded. I never knew how much of a difference that a few years can make, until I see myself staring at my 180k followers account, hating every photo of me, wanting to delete every single one of them so no one can see those thighs, that stomach, the fats that can be seen no matter how many clothes I use to cover up.
I know what I have to do, but I don't know what to do.