Sometimes, I just want to stand on the scales and cry. To stick my fingers down my throat, and watch what comes out, as I purge my body of everything that I believe is killing me.
Those simple blissful teenage days, when it was all that damn simple. The days when you don't have to squeeze your bladder together when you sneeze. When you hadn't had six medical students gawping as some butcher of a surgeon stitched up your vagina, like something out of a horror movie. I sickly wonder if I could throw up without pissing myself these days. Ah. Dignity, I miss it.
Anyway, As I was saying. I've taken the batteries out of the scales. The panic attacks are better than the purging. The hatred I can't disguise about every morsel of food that gets into my mouth. The hell I feel as I slip, not one, but 2 cookies down my greedy throat. I hate how fat I have become, the sagginess of my breasts. I could rival a 3rd world country with my ankle length breasts.
But life goes on. And I will survive on my £25 a week that I now have to live on. Because thats what we are, Survivors.
Xoxo
