I received an email from a beloved fan of this blog asking if I was alright. Why I stopped writing. If I was alive.
Only true anorexics understand what a huge possibility it is when that disordered girls blog we follow suddenly becomes a desolate un-updated waste of space in the netherworld of the net. I’ve come across the post, months later, on my most cherished ana blogs where it sings to the tune of “I regret to inform you girls…” and ending with “Let this me a lesson that…”
People will continue to do what they do however.
My last post contained a Buddhist quote in which the whole basis was, my thought process is directly linked to the circumstances in my life.
I have no home anymore, and have squeezed baby girl and I into the same bedroom as my sister in someone else’s house.
Baby girl also had a seizure…after 4 years of not having one.
I continue to be as disorders as my mind will let me ignore. And I hope that maybe that is something I will start to write about again, if only in an effort to understand why I cling onto the habits that I do.
I did weigh myself.
I was 112.
I tell myself everyday that 112 doesn’t matter.
And yet my actions are a direct reflection of how that couldn’t be furthest from the truth.
I have began exploring my soul, aligning my chakras, meditating into my spirit and believing that I am receiving spiritual divination through the triple digit 111’s I keep seeing everywhere I turn.
Today it is 111, yesterday it was 999, the months before that it was 222. I believe it is a sign from the higher-ups.
Perhaps I am just crazy.
I often wake up puking up foam. I smoke a bowl to try to stop the first heave at 5 am but it does no good. I’m just high and heaving, which is quite possibly, the most uncomfortable combination of states of being.
I shove my fingers down my throat to expediate the process. It is always foamy white, and if I am lucky, some bile. i keep wondering where the substance is, but it is not there. Simply because I haven’t put it there.
I force myself to heave enough to physically exhaust myself. It helps me be able to leave the bathroom, due to dizziness, and lay down in the bed for a bit. In the bed I breath like I’m in labor and thrash my whole body around.
My sister says I should go to the doctor.
Whenever I try to force my body to stop moving of hypervintilating, a burning sensation begins inside my core and starts to spread towards my skin, a feeling that I don’t think I could ever truly describe.
So then I get back up again.
Force myself to puke up more foam.
And so it continued for 3 hours before I got out of bed and worked a double.
Ate 5 bites of a salad all day.
You know the drill.
It’s a sad reality.