. . . Just looking through my old journal.
An entry three days after my fourteenth fucking birthday:
"What do i see when I look in a mirror?
I see a girl
with big uneven ears
an ugly nose
bags under her tearful eyes
acne
gross boring hair
rolls upon rolls of fat
thunder thighs
flat chest
cellulite butt
thats what I see when I look in a mirror
and people actually wonder why I'm on the verge of
anorexia
bulimia
cutting
suicide
if they saw what I see when I look in the mirror
They wouldn't wonder anymore."
God, looking through this. I want to cry. Hate is just flowing off the pages. I seemed to have so much more self control during this time. This time full of anger and hatred for myself. It was so much easier when no one cared. I think it must be why I'm pushing the greatest guy who ever came into my life away from me.
For the first time ever in my life my waist is a solid fucking 27 inches.
This summer. THIS SUMMER. I was down to a 25.
Seeing that damn measuring tape stretched across my bloated (yeah, I fucked up day. Fried rice too. so so so bad) bulging stomach say 27 inches makes me want to die. For the longest time the only thing keeping me from killing myself was the fact that I didn't want to die fat. Hopefully that damn measurement will be enough to keep me motivated for a while.
I'm attempting my first fast in quite a while. It wont be a long. We'll take it slow. See how it goes.
Yikes.
