We played lots of games and had fun, and ate.. chips, chocolate, nachos, more chips, half a pizza each of us. 5 o'clock in the morning, a Milka with biscuits is being finished; I ignore the fact that I've eaten "bad" foods and tell myself it's going to be fine -- once I get home, the laxatives and fingers down my throat are going to make up for it all.
My stomach is aching and I want to cry. I am the only one in pain, a girl tells me "It's okay, this is how people normally eat." "I can't fucking understand you," I answer. My belly is a thousand times bigger than it should be, I need to suck it in but I can't - it hurts too much. I want to cry and the dog won't sit on my lap. I feel unloved and hated and ugly and FULL. I need to cut my fucking veins and paint my room with the blood, I need to break something, scream and cry.
I get home, eat, throw up, take 10 laxatives, eat again, wish I could throw up but then realize that, hey!, what if I throw up the laxatives? Then I remember that I've eaten cheese and drunk milk, which will result into a fucked up me tomorrow. "Never eat milk products when taking laxatives" they said, "Doesn't matter, had lax," I said. I always ignore the pain because, in the end, it is just pain, right? After that I'll be empty and dead and tired and emptier, so a little bit of I-want-to-die-it-hurts-so-much pain won't do me any bad.
It's always the same and it will never stop,
No comments:
Post a Comment