(no subject)
Recently I've been musing on how far I've come in the last few years and how much better my life is. Despite the whole eating disorder thing, I'm still a hundred times happier than I was three years ago. Freshman year was, without a doubt, the worst year in my life. I was suicidal ALL the time. No matter where I went, I was plotting ways to jump, roll, or bleed to death. At night, I locked myself in my room, crying and cutting, wishing it would all be over. I made stupid, pathetic attempts at ending it all by suffocation or drowning. One night, unable to cope any longer, I crept downstairs in the middle of the night and swallowed handful after handful of OTC painkillers. My next day was spent in the emergency room, where nurses made me gulp down an antidote that tasted like rotten eggs while they stared at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. My parents cried. I cried. Therapy was a condition of my release, so I attended a few perfunctory sessions and then quit with all my issues still unresolved. I never expected to feel better; I never actually expected to graduate high school. Certainly I would kill myself before then. But here I am, senior year, and I'm actually not clinically depressed. That sense of desperation is gone now. I think I'll live.
Today was quite pleasing. I ate 580 calories and biked off 590, making this my first day with a negative intake in some time. Yesterday I ate 860 calories and didn't workout. Blah.
Today was quite pleasing. I ate 580 calories and biked off 590, making this my first day with a negative intake in some time. Yesterday I ate 860 calories and didn't workout. Blah.