Drunken nonsense.

Have you ever blacked out and felt yourself "getting out of" that blackout, only to get pissed off cus you know you won't be able to sleep?? Have you ever been constipated for days solely because you haven't had anything to drink? Have you ever forced yourself to drink just so you can avoid the awful withdrawals? If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you might've been me in your past life.

I remember purging, but I don't remember what the fuck I ate and my wallet is completely empty. What the fuck. I ate more than 800 calories today.  800. eightfuckinghundred. i might as well have eaten a fucking cow. fuck you ed. fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. fatgrossdisgustinglardgelatinousepieceofshit.

I should know better. I've been in treatment, I've talked to countless therapists. I'm smarter than this... My mom deserves a better daughter, my brother deserves a better sister, the world deserves a better human being...

eightfuckinghundred. EIGHTHUNDRED. 800. morethaneighthundred... i ate more than 1 meal. 1 meal is 650kcal and i ate more than 150 more than that. fucking disgusting. weak. im fucking WEAK.

This is no way to live.. I'm killing myself.  I don't think I want to die.  I have goals, I have dreams... I want to carry out my goals and dreams, but the only way I can do that is if I'm healthy...and being healthy means gaining weight, and that scares the fuck out of me. I want to be OK. I want to be healthy, but I want to be thin. I want to be knocked unconscious until I'm all better...

It's 4:10am and I've sobered up. This is bad news.

I came across a draft that was meant to be posted like a year ago, but wasn't for some reason. But I'll post it here because it sums up how I'm feeling:

“I mean, if you were to find a shattered mirror, find all the pieces, all the shards and all the tiny chips, and have whatever skill and patience it took to put all that broken glass back together so that it was complete once again, the restored mirror would still be spiderwebbed with cracks, it would still be a useless glued version of its former self, which could show only fragmented reflections of anyone looking into it. Some things are beyond repair. And that was me.” 
― Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

I feel like an incorrigible infant who just cries and cries all day and night.  No one knows how to comfort her, no one knows what she needs.  She doesn't even know what she needs.  No amount of love or food will stop her deafening, vociferous cry.  She just cries and fucking cries until she cries herself to sleep and everybody is fed up.  

I feel like a crybaby.

Ever since my "weight restoration", I have been dreading my new, "healthy" body.  I've started smoking again, my ED behaviors have resurfaced, and the "clarity" that comes from nourishing the body has only made clear to me how much I miss my 85-pound-I-have-a-reason-for-having-AA-cups body.  Now I look at myself and am disgusted by the way my stomach sticks out, the way my thighs touch, the way my stomach makes my tits look even smaller, and the way my tits make my stomach look even bigger.  I feel like a fucked up optical illusion, and I am deeply ashamed of all this prissy talk.  For as long as I can remember, I've hated and never understood girls who were so vain and complained about their body.  But now, I've become the very type of person I hate and it's fucking embarrassing.  So gradually, yet so suddenly, I've become "that girl", but I've even taken that to an extreme.  I'm "that girl" with an eating disorder.  

Distraction

This is to distract me from the voice in my head. Too many triggers, not enough self control. I feel like Ed has taken over all of me and seeped into every cell of my being. I am so hungry but it's probably emotional, not physical, hunger. I can't binge until my parents leave and I've been fantasizing about it since yesterday.  It's 3:20 and all I ate was about .5oz of beef and 1 babybel light cheese.  I shouldn't binge. I know I shouldn't but it's that rush of euphoria I get after a purge that is so hard to stay away from. I could read for class, I could play piano or ukelele, I could do laundry, I could do anything but bp. But it's so damn hard. So I'm distracting myself now.  Pretty funny because binging and purging is what my true distraction is. I want to go to the movies. I want to go to the beach. A mountain. A cemetery. Anywhere. Alone. But the money I spend there could be money I use for food.  Fuck. How pathetic. My mind and thoughts are everywhere and I feel like I'm bouncing off walls and I'm not even manic. Fuck, shit, balls.

My fibro is flared up pretty badly which usually happens after a night of drinking like a fish. I can't remember the last time I drank and didn't black out. Last week, I went to a bar by myself and the next thing I know, I woke up at a stranger's apartment. Fortunately, nothing happened as far as sexual shit and he didn't even steal anything. Apparently I passed out on the sidewalk on the way home, and he carried me to his place. It's so crazy because I remember leaving the bar.  I really didn't think I was that drunk, and somewhere along the way on my way home, my brain decided to say, "Hey, I'm gonna check out now.  Peace." I guess that's what happens after 17 shots. It also makes you stay drunk all of the next day and most of the night. I woke up this morning and did my routine body checking and noticed my stomach. So I texted the friend I was with last night and he told me I b/p'ed outdoors which means I didn't fucking purge everything.  This is why I need a fucking scale!! We threw ours out cus it sucks and we're probably not going to replace it. How the fuck am I gonna see my progress?! Ugh, I'm still pissed about it.

Oh, a few days ago, I talked to Dr. Strober, the director of the ED treatment program at UCLA. When I told him I wanted treatment, he asked me if I was underweight and I immediately saw a red flag. When I told him my weight and height he said, "Oh you'll manage. You'll manage." One of the biggest myths about eating disorders is that you have to be extremely underweight.  Otherwise, you don't have an eating disorder and/or you're not sick enough.  This is such a dangerous belief because it is a big reason why sick people don't seek treatment. Someone at a healthy weight can be just as deep in his/her ed, if not more so, as someone who's severely underweight.  I had the most ed behaviors when I was at a healthy weight and most people with eating disorders are at a "normal" weight. And to hear someone so accredited say something so fucking ignorant, really infuriates me. The seriousness of eating disorders should never me minimized. Even knowing that what he said is incorrect, I still thought to myself, "I'm not sick enough. I don't need treatment. I can lose more weight." So I will not be going to that program. He makes me feel ashamed of being a UCLA graduate. 

Parents are still here and so are my urges. I'm on my 5th cup of green tea. At least I'm hydrating myself. Damn, this fibro fucking sucks right now. B/p actually help ease the pain. Oh, rationalizations.

Wow. My parents left, I went to the kitchen, and I don't have a million different things to eat in front of me. My urges are so ridiculously intense and I hope my parents come back before I can't fight them anymore. Fuck. Fuck I want to binge. How will I distract myself until they get back. Shit. I need to fucking get out. 

That light at the end of the tunnel

I'm spiraling out of control. This thing I'm doing is not called living.  I used to measure my wellness based on the number of days I went without a binge/purge/restrict, but now I measure it by the number on the scale. When someone asks me how I'm doing, I lie.  I'm not ok, or alright, or good, and I've become so good at hiding it.  At any given moment, I am thinking about how to look normal, my racing heartbeat, the number of calories I did or didn't consume, what I wish I could be eating, my next binge, where a discrete bathroom is, the next time I can body check without anyone noticing.  These, in turn, lead me to feel worthless, pathetic, and crazy; so much so that I answer with a rehearsed smile and a quick ok, alright, or good. Because even though I know I'm not ok, alright, or good, hearing myself tell someone that I am, makes me feel normal, because that's what normal people say.  But if you want my honest answer, I would tell you that I am neurotic and want to claw the flesh off my body.  And who wants to hear that?

Until a few months ago, I thought I found something good for the first time.  I thought that that something would help me find the strength within myself to fight the evil voices and free myself from the icy grips of addiction.  I thought I had finally gone through all there is to go through and that that something was my way out, my light, my guide to health and happiness.  But just like everything else that ever happened in my life, that something turned out to be a mere illusion.  I expected too much and fell.  Hard. I should've seen it coming. The black cloud that hangs over my head doesn't only bring me down; it grows and fucking grows into a hideous, overweight monster of a beast and looms ominously over all those unlucky ones around me until it becomes pointless to stick around. This is why I isolate. Hindsight bias is a bitch.  If I learned anything from my addictions, I've learned that it is very difficult to come across someone who is accepting of my flaws, or whatever you want to call them. To be accepting of one's flaws is to see the person as bigger (haha) than his/her flaws and to respect the person enough to allow him/her to make mistakes and grow from them, all without judgment. I don't know about you but that's how I see it. 

So how am I doing?  I'm in worse condition than I ever was and I'm surprised every day a heart attack doesn't come on.  My enamels have thinned out, again, and I feel a couple shaky teeth, again.  That alone would be a giant sign for most to turn things around, but not for me.  Why not?  Because self-destruction entices me.  There's something beautiful and ethereal about slowly destroying one's own body and watching it wither away a piece, a pound at a time, until it's laid to rest, finally. No, I'm not trying to kill myself.  Not anymore, anyway.  And don't let what I said trick you into thinking self-destruction is a choice, because it's not.  It's a result of an imbalance in the brain chemistry, and those with addictions/mental illnesses should be dealt with and treated as such.  There is no rationalizing or reasoning that can be done with someone who is addicted.  When it comes to my eating disorder in particular, I know that surpassing my 400-calorie-a-day limit is not going to turn me into a giant, disgusting tub of lard. I know that I don't have to worry about weight-gain if all I ate all day were 2 carrots and 1 lettuce leaf.  I know that eating 2 potato chips doesn't have to thrust me into a binge/purge cycle, and I know I don't have to purge after eating something off the kid's menu. I know that my ED isn't doing my osteopenia or hypothyroidism any good. I've heard everything there is to hear about eating disorders and if I had control over this thing, I would've given it up a long time ago. I am the marionette and ED is the puppeteer. 

It's hard to start the day off with a positive attitude when almost every night, I dream about getting chased, raped, and left in a pool of blood, or about not being able to purge all the pizza, donuts, and pasta I scarfed down. No, it's not the best way to start the day, so forgive me if I'm grouchy. I wake up, usually in a sweat, and that's when the nightmare really begins. Depending on what time I wake up, my anxiety varies.  The earlier I wake up, the longer I am conscious, and the longer I am conscious, the longer I am in my own head where all the painful memories, hateful messages, and self-destructive urges reside. And people wonder why I'm always chasing highs. Until the moment I fall asleep, it is a physical and mental battle to keep myself away from food, which amplifies my anxiety and thoughts of worthlessness, which lead me to a binge. Of course, if I tell myself I'll just have a bowl of cereal, it will turn into 5 bowls, 4 sandwiches, and a handful of cookies, so I avoid food altogether, unless I'm brave enough to have a slice of cheese or the whites of a hard-boiled egg. Sometimes I take the easy way out and take sleeping pills, because I see no other way to find peace and quiet.  

I hate my eating disorder for doing this to me. I hate that it robbed me of 12 years of my life and I hate that it controls my every move, every thought, every emotion of every day.  I hate that it is always right under my nose just waiting for me to fuck up.  I hate that I'm an anxious wreck at social events.  I hate that I've never had a holiday meal. I hate that everyday on my way home, I stop to eat at as many restaurants as I can afford to. I hate that it has made being in a relationship pretty much impossible.  I hate that it's created happiness anxiety. I hate my tendency to fuck shit up when things are going relatively normally, just so I can find comfort in the chaos. I'm so fucking sick and tired of living this way.  If all goes well, I will be back in inpatient treatment in November, but I can only imagine the amount of damage I can do until then.  I know myself well enough to know that therapy and other outpatient programs will do nothing to help, so I will have to try to stay sane and alive enough to make it to treatment. To be honest, I kind of don't want to go to treatment because it's gonna be fucking hard.  Being in treatment last year was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.  Talking about feelings 24/7 is exhausting and I despised going through weight restoration and seeing the pounds and fat build up on every inch of my body. And recovering from an eating disorder, or any other addiction, isn't just quitting that unhealthy behavior.  It's changing your entire life and outlook on life.  It's finding and maintaining self-respect, self-love, and internal motivation so you can actually carry out what you've learned and apply it to your every day life, post-treatment. All this is obviously made a little easier if you surround yourself with good, safe people, but that's hard to come by, at least in my experience.

I fantasize about the days I can finally sit down at a restaurant with people and order whatever sounds good on the menu, or the days I can actually eat the food that I cook.  I am fat. I am worthless.  No one wants me. I don't deserve anyone.  Everyone is an evil, manipulative liar who will ultimately end up hurting me.  I don't deserve to be happy.  I've been in treatment - I should know better. I will never be good enough. I long for the days these thoughts come to an end. If I can't stop my behaviors on my own, the next best thing I can do for myself is be patient and ride it out.

Lonely

Things are getting more difficult and painstaking.  The fire has burnt out and it feels impossible to get out of bed.  Time slows down when I'm awake and if I'm not at work, I'm watching garbage TV.  I have no one to hang out with because my only 2 friends are busy, and I don't have a car.  I feel lonely even when I'm not alone.

I was doing well. I got a great job, I was following my meal plan for the most part, and my mom and I laughed together.  Now, I'm calling off work every week because I can't seem to motivate myself.  I'm binging and purging almost daily, and even my mom says she sees sadness in my eyes.  I'm better than this.  There was a time when I never missed a single day of work; there was a time when I didn't sleep 10 hours a night; there was a time when I could motivate myself to do anything.  Those were my college years. My schedule was always packed and I felt on top of the world.  Now, all I'm left with is my great job that I can't seem to take seriously, and hours of being alone with my thoughts.

It's not all bad though.  I'm not the same "disconnected" person I used to be, and it's all thanks to weed.  Weed used to be my water, my fuel, my numbing and dumbing agent.  Now, I use it to feel alive.  I use it to be more aware of the thoughts that constantly roam my mind.  I'm tired of hearing from therapists that I "need to connect with my trauma", so I smoke, and all the hurtful memories I've buried away rise from their graves. I hate the uncomfortable feelings that come from connecting with my past, but I love that I have finally found a way to do so.  I am one step closer to moving on.  Maybe this new "awareness" is what's causing me to be so low.  Maybe this is my body's way of telling me that it is finally feeling.

Through all this negativity, there is only one thing I know for sure: I need to go back to school.  My college years were the best years of my life.  I felt most productive, valuable, and inspired.  Work, alone, is not enough for me.  If I were to have one wish come true, I would wish for a life-time's worth of education paid for. I know school's not going to magically make all things better.  I know I need to continue to do self-work and I have accepted that until that is done, I will be feeling low -- my body's natural response will be to shut down and escape.  The self-work is going to be incredibly difficult and arduous, but I will come out on the other side, more at peace.

I'll see a therapist, but I don't want to.  I'm so tired of seeing therapists.  I just need a friend with whom I can be completely vulnerable.  Someone to lend a ear and empathize -- without judgment or lecturing -- and help me through all this. Until then, blogging and smoking shall do.  I know recovery is not a linear process -- I just wish the hard parts didn't have to last so long.

Reflection

I am sitting on the bed wondering what happened.  How did I get to this point, again?  I was moving forward, doing well.  I define, "doing well" by having no ED behaviors.  I've been doing well for about 7 months.  Given, 6 of those 7 months were spent in treatment, but I've done it so I know I can do it again.  I should be able to do it again.  That 7-month period should have been the hardest time in my recovery, considering its temporal closeness to my lowest point.  Or should it have been?  Was I just in the initial gung-ho-I'm-all-about-recovery period?  Was it beginner's luck?
It's interesting because I was very depressed until about a month ago, but I was having no behaviors.  I was doing well.  About a month ago, I started taking my meds again because the depression was getting to be too much.  Now I'm happy (still uneasy about that word) and more emotionally stable, but compulsively exercising, bingeing, and purging almost daily.
It could be the fact that I have a 3-week break from work, but that only accounts for last week when the break started.  What about all the weeks before that?  What was going on then?  I know.  Things were beginning to be too normal, too mundane, too boring.  I need to live in the black and white.  I crave it.  I am drawn, and used to the chaotic, extreme hour-to-hour, day-to-day living.  I don't know how to be comfortable in the grey.  When things start to be too normal, I feel so much anxiety an pent up energy to stir things up, usually for the worse.

"I have been in treatment.  I know better.", is what plays in my head over and over.  It has passed the point of being encouraging, and is now only discouraging and mocking.  I have been in treatment, I know how therapy sessions are going to go, I have all the insight I need.  Then why am I sitting here writing about these things?  Why have I taken so many steps back?  Why do I still need to write in order to let the urges pass?  Why do I still have urges?  Why can't I eat without dissecting the ingredients and counting calories?  I know better.

I just had a cobb salad with less dressing than was in the package (370), toast (110), ice cream (90), m&m's (50).  620.  The entire time I was eating, I was debating between whether or not I should binge/purge.  I thought about all the food I don't have at home, and that while I'm cooking or buying food, the calories I've already consumed will be absorbed.  I thought about how I have more than enough time to b/p before going to support group.  I thought about how shitty I'd feel telling my boyfriend I b/p'ed yet again, and about the pain and exhaustion that comes from purging.  It was the most mindful I have been in a long time.  Yesterday, the same debate happened, except I actually b/p'ed.  Today, I am able to listen to the con's and make them outweigh the pro's.  One pro is that I will lose weight.  Another is that I will get to eat everything I want without gaining weight.  On a point system, those 2 have a greater total than the con's combined.  But, somehow, I am able to stop myself in my tracks and put an end to my ED voice.

The urge has passed and I have 1 hour until I leave for support group.  I'm proud of myself.

..........

"The tendency toward excess veered out of control into bulimia, that state of fear and desire, that violent crashing back and forth between hunger and the abortion of hunger, between taking in and throwing back what is most needed and instinctively desired: food...Fearing the constant thunder in the mind that bulimia brings, I turned toward the silence of anorexia.  Afraid of the explicit passions of bulimia, I sought out what I mistook for the passionless state of starvation."  (Marya Hornbacher, Wasted. Pg. 94)

I don't know what happened.  I was doing so well when I was in treatment, but gradually, I've been having behaviors.  Frequent behaviors.  I've been restricting, binging, purging, body checking, compulsively exercising, negative self-talking.  I met with a therapist for the first time in a long time, and for lack of a better word, it was depressing.

Therapist: You think you're defected.  You think no one can help you.
Me: Well, yea.  I do think I'm defected.  I've had therapists tell me that they can't help me.  
T: You know, you might be recreating the situation for yourself.
M: If I am aware of that possibility, why would I let that happen.  Why would I let myself recreate the situation.  I don't like being like this.  I want to be helped.

T: Why are you here [in therapy]?
M: I want to want to get better.
T: That has to come from you.
M: [DUH] I know.  I guess, I just wanted to be able to talk to somebody without judgment, with no strings attached.

T:  Can I be completely honest with you?
T: You are so far from being connected with your body, you are so far from being in touch with yourself.  
M: ......
T: It is unethical for me to see you every week and try to help you while I watch you self-destruct.
M: ......
T: Have you considered going back to treatment?
.........
T: Do you want me to refer you to another therapist?


So what does this mean.  I want to go to support groups so badly, but they take place during my work hours.  I desperately want to meet with my dietitian, but she takes appointments only during my work hours.  I can't afford to lose out on a whole day's worth of pay, so my only choice is to wait until school is on winter vacation.  But even when I do meet with my dietitian or go to a support group, what will I gain from it?  What more insight do I need?  Insight doesn't get you anywhere; It's the actions that make the difference.  But if I have the insight on how to recover, know what actions to take in order to recover, but still desire to engage in behaviors to reach my goal of getting thinner, what can I possibly gain from therapy?  Will I ever get better?  Yes, I do think I'm defected.  And I sound pathetic and like a complete self-loathing crybaby, but I honestly can not see myself living a "normal" life, let alone having the mentality of a non-eating-disordered person.

I can't imagine myself looking at my meal without seeing numbers.  Counting calories is so second-nature to me, I can not imagine shutting off that part of my brain.  I know how many calories my meal plan calls for, and if I go over that number, even by the tiniest bit, my fear of gaining weight would outweigh all other rational thought.

This blog doesn't reach many people, but to those that it does, any thoughts??  Suggestions?? Anyone there??
ANYbody??

Welcome to my mind.

Do 40 minutes on the treadmill like yesterday.  Yesterday was a good first day back at the gym.  How many calories did I burn yesterday?
I beat myself up for not remembering.
Let's do 45 minutes just for cushion.
"The Biggest Loser" is on TV.  What a shitty show to play at the gym.  Subtitles read, "I burned enough calories to eat a cookie".  Go to hell.
Start off walking at 1.5 incline, 3.7 speed.  Run at same incline, 6.0 speed.  Walk 5, run 5, walk 5, run 5.
30:00. 277 calories.  Portia de Rossi wrote in her Unbearable Lightness, that she ran at 6.0 on a 1.0 incline for 30 minutes. I feel good already.  Almost past my day's intake.  Let's break 300 for the banana I ate before the workout.
35:00.  Walk at 3 incline at 3.7 speed.  It's a little tiring, so I grab the handles.  Then I think, moving my arms back and forth has to burn more calories than grabbing the handles.
44:00. 377 kcal.  Back at 1.5 incline.  Want to break 400 even if it goes past my earlier decision to do just 45 minutes.  A nice round number, 400.  48:10.  400kcal.  I reached my goal.  I can stop now, but what kind of number is 48:10.  Might as well go to 50:00.  Why stop at 50 when I can go to 60?
54:20.  Feel so powerful.  People coming and going on the machines on either side of me.  I feel stronger, more intense, more superhuman  than those people who give in to their body's signals (there are too many parallels here to my food behaviors).  I tell myself, today is the only day I will exercise like this.
55:00.  Walk these last 5 minutes.  55:43 470 kcal.  Want to break 500.  Will this ever end?
59:33 488 kcal.  So close, keep pushing.  Increase incline to 3.0 because it burns more calories faster.  61:38 500 kcal.  Take that, Portia de Rossi.

It's only 8:55PM.  Too early to go back home and do nothing so might as well stay and burn some more.  Move on to the bicycle.  Cigarettes in my bag look so tempting and rewarding.  My tendency to delay any sort of gratification, tells me that waiting is going to make them that much tastier.
Damn.  2:46 16 kcal.  What is this.  Shit, I forgot to suck in and tighten my stomach.
Got a call to open the front door of my apartment.  Thank goodness it's only half a block away.  I get off the machine. But wait, I forgot to read the kcal burned.  I panic a little.  Get back on to check and am relieved to see that resuming the workout will show where I left off.  35 kcal.  Total of 535 kcal for 1.5 hours.  I run to apartment to continue workout.  Why walk when I can run?  This feels like it's about a 5.0 incline.  Open door, run back.  I deserve a cigarette, and damn, the wait did make it tastier.

Get back in the gym on to the bicycle.  3:15, 16.  Reading my beloved book, Wasted, by Marya Hornbacher.  Who the hell reads a memoir about eating disorders at the gym.  I do.  It reads, "We speak as if there was one collective perfect body, a singular entity that we're all after.  The trouble is, I think we are after that one body.  We grow up with the impression that underneath all this normal flesh, buried deep in the excessive recesses of our healthy bodies, there was a Perfect Body just waiting to break out.  It would look exactly like everyone else's perfect body.  A clone of the shapeless, androgynous models, the hairless, silicone-implanted porn stars...As Andy Warhol wrote, "The more you look at the same exact thing...the better and emptier you feel." (p. 47)
19:02, 95 kcal.
"Recent research suggests that an extremely strong desire for academic achievement may be as significant as sexual maturation, if not more so, in the development of eating disorders in young women.  There is a combination of...a family that has high expectations of achievement...a child who is prone to excessive self-imposed pressure; and a child who exhibits unusual levels of academic ability and intelligence.  The combination often results in mental paralysis.The child may defect from expectations - her own above all else - and take refuge in an entirely antirational set of behaviors that have, in fact, a highly organized structure." (p. 54)
Marya Hornbacher: she is my hero.  It's called Wasted.  Everybody should read it, whether or not they have an eating disorder.  It's a great parenting book.
25:00 126 kcal.
28:30 147 kcal. Need to break 150.
Pedal harder.
30:00 151 kcal.
686 kcal not including the run to and from my apartment.

Time for some arm exercises.
Get on the fixed pulldown.  40 lb (pitiful).  5 sets of 15.  I wish these had calorie counters.

I walk to a more open area to stretch and do some crunches.  It feels good to be at the gym.

2.25 hours, around 700 kcal burned.  I don't want to exercise like this again.  Too many memories.  But, if I don't do it again or even raise the bar next time, I'm going to feel mentally weak and physically larger.
I am starving.
I get back home, take an amazing, long shower, and I feel weak, shaky. The hot shower leaves me even more hungry, and I contemplate not eating anything to keep up my caloric deficit.  I catch myself getting caught up in my old ways and grab a banana. I think bananas are literally the quietest foods, from the peeling, to the chewing, to the disposing of peel.  Well, I guess yogurt and pudding are similar in noise-level.  I'm not a big banana-lover, partly because it's not juicy at all, partly because it's so dense and has so many calories.  But I think, "I burned enough calories to eat a banana" and try to eat as quietly as I possibly can.  This takes me back to my bulimic days when I used to binge in the kitchen when everyone was asleep, trying to make as little noise as possible.
But this time I don't purge.
Because I already did.