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Diary of a Twenty-Something: 06.28.18.

June 28, 2018


I'm writing about this in order to hold myself accountable.


Sam and I did a takeover for Mall of America today, which was incredibly fun.


My anxiety also subconsciously manifested in the form of my disordered thoughts. I stopped eating after 4pm yesterday, and I ate my first piece of food today around 4:30pm. 


I let myself eat a Cinnabon. I figured it's okay, I hadn't eaten in a long time, my body needed the calories.


940 calories.


940 calories.


Nine hundred and forty calories. 


Did my body need 940 calories?


The blogging industry has done incredible things for me, and I am endlessly grateful for the opportunities I've been given, but being in a position where appearance is so significant, the stress 



I didn't even make it to the end of that sentence.


I'm sorry to myself. 


940 calories gone. 


I feel sick. 


I hate that something as ugly as an eating disorder can manifest itself in beautiful moments and incredible opportunities. 


I hate that my body's response to stress is to kill itself. 


I hate it when I can't fight the impulse to tie my hair back and let my body go on auto-pilot. 


My eating disorder thrives on routine. I gave it something familiar.


No food for a long period of time, and the feeling of an empty stomach.


When I'm eating regularly, I don't think about it.


But the moment I start restricting (even unintentionally), my body starts feeling comfortable again. It remembers the feeling of being empty, and weak, and a little dizzy. It likes the familiarity. 


Then I try to eat something, and suddenly I'm extremely aware that I've just eaten something.


My brain goes mad.


It yells at me. It tells me that I was doing so well, if only I hadn't broken my restricting streak.


What did you just do? Get rid of that! Spit that out! Why'd you ruin a good thing?



Sam is going to be here soon.


She said twenty minutes.


I finished in ten.


Bulimia sucks.

I don't mean to bring anyone else down with this post, but it's a diary. It's candid. I have to remember these moments.


Purging always sounds like the answer, until the moment after. My head hurts. My face hurts. My throat hurts. 


I also didn't mean for this blog post to happen in real time. I don't want to post this, but if I am going to hold myself accountable, I'm also going to remind myself of my failures.


I didn't fail.


The moment I call it a failure is the moment I cave into myself and go back to old habits.


This wasn't a failure, it was a setback. 


Every recovery has setbacks. 


I am not going to pretend that recovery is always empowering. It's not. It's painful. 


My brain wants to kill my body.



All you can do is try to be better tomorrow.


Work to love yourself. 


I want to love myself. 

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