Fuck.

Well, today was a complete write-off. Food wise, I mean. Seeing my friends was so, so great. Charlie has a new boyfriend. He's kind of awkward but seems like a nice guy (more decent than the last one, at any rate). They kept kissing in front of us. Tina dyed her hair red. Seemed like a lot had changed but I couldn't keep thinking that it was all only an illusion, me being there with them, us all hanging out. It was like I knew it was going to end soon, so I preserved every microscopic detail in my head. To treasure until the next time I'm allowed out of this 2D world I've built in my head. The cut-out paper bedroom I've been living in.

Everything was all fine and dandy until I got home and realised how bloated I was. I didn't understand. I'd thought my stomach looked acceptable - flat, even - before I'd left the house. I put it down to the diet coke I had and lay down for a while, waiting for it to go away. It didn't.

Then I went to the bathroom to look in the mirror, and my stomach was just... swollen. Like, the way it looks after a binge. I realised this was because I've been stopped up for 3 days and haven't been able to 'go' as it were since I had that bug and was on the toilet every other hour. Rebound constipation - gotta love it. So that fucking depressed me. So I went to go and drink a load of water, which only ended up making me pee like a race horse.

Here, we get to the bad bit. At 7 pm I stepped on the scales and saw 141.8 flash up at me. I nearly had a motherfucking heart attack. I mean, WHAT. THE. FUCK? I was 136.6 this morning! How is this happening?

Then I started hearing the voice of that woman from the eating disorders centre in my head, saying I wasn't eating enough. So I went downstairs and, to add insult to injury, promptly gorged on a piece of toast with butter, 4 pieces of orange chocolate, 3 mini chocolate caramel eggs, a handful of sweets, and a tablespoon of peanut butter. Great work, Gabby. You can wave bye-bye to a good intake of 1,200 calories, and say hello to 1,600, your new, revolting, best friend.

...Why do I even bother doing it to myself? Seriously. I thought I was OVER the bingeing thing. I thought this was all old news. And the part that really sucks? I will probably be 139 lbs in the morning, even though it wasn't a proper bloody binge. I watch as all my hard work goes unravelled. Yawn. This story never ends. It's on freak repeat mode.

And, one more thing. Why do I feel the need to ruin a perfectly good day by fucking up like this? Maybe I feel like I didn't deserve to be this happy, I don't know. And now all I want to do is starve, starve, starve. But I can't. I have to be good. I have to sit in my disastrously fat body all weekend and pretend I'm OK with it. I can't take a bunch of laxatives like I normally would. I can't fast until Monday. I have to carry on, chugging away, eating machine, nah nah nah. Fuck this.

PLAN:

-1000-1500 kcal a day (if you have a slightly higher day, try to balance it with a slightly lower day afterwards)

-40 min workout every day

It's all I can do, until I reach 130. Excuse me while I go away and cry myself to sleep.