Fuck

I’ve been away for a while. I know. I’m a bad person, I feel like I’ve been neglecting a close friend unnecessarily and as I write this I worry breathlessly that you are annoyed with my unexplained absence and reluctant to welcome me back. I worry that perhaps I’ve lost the blogging buzz entirely, and hope above all else that I’m not about to let my blog languish into disuse.

The cover story is that I wanted to hold off on posting until I’d broken into the 120s, to see if it might rekindle my fire. But if I said that was it, I’d be lying.

The truth is I have been drifting aimlessly for the past two weeks.

I am a collection of shit metaphors. A boat with no wind in its sails. A car with no engine.

A chicken with no head?

[I’m also watching the England v Germany match - I can’t BELIEVE that goal was disallowed. STUPID FUCKING REFEREE. Hopefully that’ll at least give the England team a good kick up the arse.]

My rate of loss in the past two weeks has been absolutely embarrassing. From 133lbs on the 14th of June, to 129.8lbs today. Fucking pathetic. A far cry from my usual 0.7/8lbs per day. My previously resolute drive to lose has almost completely escaped me and without it, I am... lost.

I lose therefore I am.

Right now, without my drive I am nothing.

My restricting has been humiliatingly lax – I have been frequently allowing myself whole litre CARTONS of fruit smoothie (very healthy, but 530 cals a piece nonetheless) with not a glimmer of the familiar concern about loss. My portions of hummus have slowly crept up to double, GOD sometimes even fucking triple what they used to be. I pulled out of the Skinny Pact because the calorie bracket was too high for me, what the FUCK happened to the girl who relished a daily intake of under 250 cals and a stomach full of empty? Fuck knows... But do I even notice and attempt to correct the change? Do I bollocks.

[Rooney, it is fucking OPEN. SHOOT YOU BASTARD!]

I have also been eating - FUCK, I’ll call it what it is - I have been BINGING and purging up to FOUR times a day. And regarding it with the same level of ambivalence as I have been my skyrocketing intake. My previously (reasonably) flat stomach is bulging sickeningly over my waistline in a manner I haven’t seen in MONTHS and the sharper line of my jaw has disappeared once more, dulled by the swollen glands in my throat. A result of my apparent newfound habit of jamming my fingers down my throat. Yet, I do not relent.

[3-1 to Germany. What the FUCK are the England defence DOING?! WAKE UP! Stop standing around like idiots! It’s not fucking over until it’s over!]

Frequently I have eaten with the sole intention of purging – hoping and fucking PRAYING that a good purge is just what I need to whip me back into shape, to remind me why it’s all worth it – the way it used to. But it never does and more often than not I am left sobbing quietly on my knees in the toilet as I clean up any evidence of my meal. And over and over I repeat, initially hopeful that THIS time it might be different, but now simply going through the motions. Numb. The heartburn hurts like a bitch, but fuck if I care anymore.

[4-1. FUCK.]

120lbs beckons invitingly. So fucking CLOSE now that I have broken into the 120s, just barely at 129.8, but the surge of inspiration should be overpowering. But instead, I am afraid. I am fucking terrified that when I get to 120lbs, it’s not going to be enough. I remember, it never fucking is. I become so consumed by the need to lose that, as Elle said HERE, appearance takes a back seat, potentially being more attractive at a higher weight becomes irrelevant and it the need for loss is all there is. More frightening still is that I can feel the grip of the numbers squeezing me already – making me doubt that 120 is low enough before I’ve even reached it. A while back I edited my Stats sidebar to include an UGW of 110 without even thinking twice about why. Fuck, I didn’t even think once. Particularly not about the fact that it would put my BMI at a dangerously low (but sickeningly desirable) 15.8.

I want to be beautiful. Not a living skeleton. But now I am unsure if I can even tell the two apart.

[Fuck. NOW it’s over. England are going home.]

Perhaps my loosening will is my subconscious’s way of delaying the inevitable. Or perhaps I am, on some level, aware that I am doing this to myself but am far too entrenched in denial to allow myself to see it. It could even be that the part of me that HATED the way I used to look is satisfied now, but the bigger, stronger, disordered part is unwilling to allow me to stop – not that I even fucking want to. Whatever it is, self loathing is at an all-time high and I am without a plan.

Fuck.