Contra mundum

Sooo... the last few days have felt like, "Hello Darkness my old friend". Get ready for TMI.

So. Thursday night equalled bingeing like I hadn't done in what felt like literally over a year. For the past week I've been steadily maintaining 168-169 lbs on the scales every afternoon (same time, same place, always before eating anything) which actually I've been pretty happy with. Anything below 170 (the official mark where I hit "overweight" for my height) is a bonus. Anything below 169 is a double bonus, because 169 always feels like I'm teetering precariously on the edge of something. Anyway. I binged last night like I hadn't done in ages, I think in part, because I know my mum is coming up this weekend (and although I love her completely, stressful situations or at the very least feelings of tension on my end always seem to occur when we are together). Add to that, and here's the "tmi" part - I haven't gone to the bathroom (yeah in that way) for three f*cking days now. As I've said, I don't really do this whole binge/starve cycle anymore, at least nowhere near the extent I used to, so these issues with digestion don't really occur anymore like they used to either. I remember going weeks without sh*tting as a restrictive-b/p eating disordered teenager. I mean literally, weeks. There's everything this blog catalogues, then there's all the stuff before that too. There's the endless cycles of fasting, gorging, laxative-taking, alcohol abuse and everything in between. Well, safe to say, I don't do that anymore, at least not as general practice, which is often something I commonly overlook until times like these - when I realise just how effed up my system must have been back then (and hopefully, how it must be at least slightly better now).

Anyway, as I was saying: not going to the bathroom in 3 fucking days really wreaks havoc on your mental state as well as your physical state (and I am still horrified that I have all this food sitting inside me - 3 days' worth, excluding what must be equivalent to an extra 3000 from that fucking binge) . It's like, worrying and being anxious about not having gone is making my body shut down even more. To make matters worse, I can't attempt any sort of detoxification over the coming weekend on account of my mother coming to stay. (To any newcomers: that here means, crisps and wine.)

And it's times like these, actually, - ironically - where I end up actually re-considering a dalliance with old tricks. A voice, perhaps the dormant, largely undisturbed voice of my past eating disorder, creeps in to impart its medieval wisdom once again. And suddenly I am scouring the internet for bulk-supply laxative pills, ones I can order so I don't have to appear in public doing the dirty deed.

I'm not planning on buying laxatives - but the brief glimpse of "174" on the scales tonight, at 1a.m., is enough to send my mind reeling, and I feel giddy with fear, contempt, and self-loathing. I hate myself once again and welcome those thoughts back, and they curl up next to me in bed as they used to, and life goes on as it should. Me - and it - contra mundum.