Melancholia

Not going to lie, it hasn't been the best day so far. It started off badly. Actually - that's wrong - it started off OK. I was expecting to see 136 on the scales after yesterday, but instead I saw 135.4, which was good, but it didn't make me happy. In fact I think I'd felt upset even upon waking. Why, I don't know. While I was downstairs boiling the kettle for coffee I got into a mini-argument with my mother, because she suddenly announced she was going to stay the night out of London with her boyfriend. It was my fault for not absorbing the information the first time she told me, last week (allegedly - I have no recollection of this). But it made me feel hurt and stupid and needy and excluded for entirely selfish and irrational reasons. I wasn't in a good mood, already, and it was only 10am.  

I had breakfast, and tried to get down to some work. But you know those days, when you're at home, and your mind is just constantly racing to the next meal? The next time you're allowed to eat, even if you're not hungry. I had lunch at 12.30 because I couldn't 'wait' until 1 o'clock (greedy, fat, slob). Then I ended up having a binge - wait for it - on lettuce. We have one of those huge icebergs in the fridge and I just kept going back for bowls and bowls of the stuff, with different dressings. I guess I was telling myself it was OK, it was justified to feel that disgustingly full, because at least I wasn't bingeing on cereal, or bread, or crisps, or ice cream. Then I stepped on the scales in a moment of masochism and saw 139 flash up at me. That triggered me to go back downstairs, find the crisps my mum had been hiding (no surprise there), and grab a load of other junk - cereal bars that have been annoying me for weeks, leftover gingerbread biscotti, and a 95-calorie energy bar that I was actually saving for a 'good' day rather than a binge. I brought it all up to my room, sat on my bed with my laptop, and chew/spat the whole lot into a plastic bag. One of my finer moments.

After that I felt disgusting so I downed a litre of water over about 10 minutes, hoping it would clear me out. Nope. Still bloated. It's 3pm and I am still bloated. I absolutely want to die.
 
How is it fair that some days my body/brain/whatever just 'decides' to wake up miserable. I was destined for failure, apparently, from the second I got out of bed. From the second I caught sight of myself in my bedroom mirror, and my heart filled with dread at the idea of a whole day alone, with my textbooks and my laptop, wishing I felt happy or free enough to go out in the sun, wishing the idea of calories and weights and numbers would just go away.

I was hoping I could 'save' this day by not eating until tomorrow, and I don't think I will. At least all I swallowed was lettuce. But I was particularly disappointed that I felt things were so desperate I had to firstly chomp through all the leftover junk in the house, and secondly, more revoltingly, proceed to spit for 20 minutes into a small plastic bag in the privacy of my bedroom.

The blinds are down, I'm sitting in a hot dark room feeling resentful of myself and of others, and today will not be a good day.