I don’t even want to write but I am going to try to, instead of going upstairs to wake my husband up and tell him how crap I feel.
It’s morning here in London. My neighbours have already left for work- my train goes soon.
I don’t want to go, have to go, can’t drag enough energy to go.
Last night I purged. In the shower. Why? No I hadn’t binged. I just felt full. Uncomfortably full because maybe I’m not used to eating a normal amount.
In the shower? Desperately washing away bits of food. Bulimia is dirty. It’s a stain. I’m ashamed. There was an episode a few days ago too. Slipping back in, to that bastard state.
I have a job to go too. I start a new job in a few weeks. I don’t have room for bulimia and food restriction and size 2 jeans and infertility.
Relapse. Exhausting and annoyingly predictable.
theefexordiaries 
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