So okay right? I’m at my mums. I have no clothes. I asked my sister if I could borrow a dress (to hide the fat, on my legs, as much as possible, because that’s where the fat goes).
But no, she said, none of my clothes would fit you.
She’s going to regret that. I will make her regret that.
And I said that. I said that to her. I said to her, I said “you’re going to regret that”.
And she said no offence.
But, I guess I should be thanking her, right? Because every time I think of eating, I have that feeling back.
That fucking awful feeling that stops you. Stops me from eating. Stops me from thinking about eating.
I feel so awful, mostly because when I used to try on her clothes, they would fall off. And she’d comment on how gross I looked. I liked that. I miss that. I miss the fact that my bones couldn’t fit into her clothes. I loved how they would slide off of me.
I loathe how now they don’t fit me because I’m fat.
Don’t worry. I’m not eating. I’m not eating anything until the 3rd of February. Maybe never again, until I die.
Here’s the low down, I moved out of home because I wanted to do what I wanted to do. But with no one telling me what I could and couldn’t do, doing things became boring. It was the same with eating. With no one caring if I ate or not, I ATE EVERYTHING. There was no one caring if I got out of bed, or spent the whole day in my pyjamas blaring music from my room.
Without rules, without boundaries, I gave up everything.
So I moved back home. Well kinda. And with my mum worrying about me, maybe I am still in my pyjamas, but I don’t have any other clothes at the moment, I haven’t really eaten much.
What keeps me thin is someone saying, “that’s not enough to eat,” “you haven’t eaten enough today,” “have you eaten anything today?” “you go to the gym a lot, you should take a break.”
I guess without someone noticing what I’m doing, it doesn’t matter.
I need recognition. And that’s what makes me thin.