don't worry, pleaseI fasted this week until Thanksgiving. I hadn't eaten anything since Sunday night when I scarfed down two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Nothing except Diet Caffeine Free Coke.
You know what's the most frightening thing? I enjoyed it. I enjoyed feeling empty and light on my feet and I was even a bit happier I think.
I went to my uncle's house for Thanksgiving dinner, and though I didn't eat much I felt bloated and uncomfortable afterwards. I left shortly after dinner and pulled over in an empty parking lot and purged into a trash bag I had brought for that exact purpose.
I haven't eaten since.
Why is it that I know this is wrong, and I know this is bad, but I can't stop?
That I don't really want to stop?
I think it's because I know no one will love me if I'm fat. Or, that no one did love me when I was fat. Or now for that matter. I know people love me. But, not in the way I think I need. Not in the you're-so-irresistable-I-want-to-be-with-you-forever-and-no-one-else-or-maybe-not-forever-but-maybe-at-least-for-awhile kind of way. It's either I love you like a best friend and nothing more or I just want to fuck you and nothing more.
It's always been that way. I guess it always will.
Anyway, I'm not going to eat until the first of Decemeber. Longer if I feel ok.
Please don't worry about me. The feeling of fasting makes me happy. Almost euphoric. You can ask anyone around me; they noticed it, too.
I seemed almost happy.