i can feel myself being exceptionally hard on myself right now.
several people (KW, my mother, and my therapist, namely) have told me to cut myself some slack.
maybe this (being aware of being hard on myself) is progress?
but given how hard on myself i'm being, i don't think just acknowledging it counts as progress.
KW told me about this assignment-thing he had to do at his rehab. he had to go 2 weeks without being negative toward himself, and every time he tripped up, the weeks started over. he told me i should try it. i laughed. loudly.
i don't mean to be so depressing, but it's just one of those moods, you know?
i've been having cutting urges again.
see, it's nothing to admire that i stopped cutting. i had no choice. someone at my school found out last march or so, and instead of coming to me, they went behind my back to an assistant principal. like a bitch. and then she told my mother. i have no idea who ratted me out, but i'm really fucking mad at them, still. but i'm clueless as to who's the blabbermouth.
and so once my mother knew, i had to stop. i wasn't ready. i guess i've thrown my self-injuring tendencies into other things...
i'd find another location (i used my forearm) but i think anything else would just be more awkward later in life. like, the more secret the place, the more meaningful the moment when it comes out. like... in bed. how much of a mood killer would stumbling across my scars be, for both of us?
...so... since then, i've been very... stuck.
also.
i'm talking to a friend of mine via text. i think he may like me. i wish he wouldn't. it's god damn annoying dealing with unrequited feelings. especially cuz he doesn't judge me about anything (granted, there are certain things i still do not tell him), and i'd prefer just to be able to talk candidly, rather than always worrying about saying the wrong thing or giving the wrong message.
i told him i ate too much and had to do 150 sit-ups (both of which are too true). that's not the weirdest thing to say, right? like a normal person might feel that way on occasion?
and he goes "you don't need to, you're perfect the way you are! :)"
BULL. FUCKING. SHIT.
nobody's fucking perfect, of course i'm not going to believe you. a compliment may be one thing, but saying something so RIDICULOUS? i appreciate the sentiment, i don't appreciate being lied to. also, he never sees me. he's at college. so how the fuck would he know?
"bah, when are you gonna give that up?"
"never... you are just going to have to accept it!"
"bull."
"stop that! :) you know i actually think it!"
well, then, you're actually delusional, aren't ya?
like, actually insane in the brain.
fucking hell.
i r grumpypants.
him calling me perfect is actually pissing me off beyond reason. and i think it would do the same coming from anyone. ....except maybe HF; it might just be nice to get some positivity from him for once. but he's not talking to me, sooooo.... fuck everything.
i met the romanian guy today. we walked around. my camera was dead because, like an idiot, i forgot to turn it off last night after transferring photos. usually i keep my camera in its full case. today i decided to just bring my soft case. had i not done so, i would have HAD MY GOD DAMN CHARGER. of all the days....
anywho. i told him my schedule was very busy and then very up in the air, because i'd be visiting my father in arizona indefinitely.
now i don't have to wonder about what he wants. not an issue. i feel better.
i woke up and weighed myself today. 123.6. i didn't even let myself celebrate. i'll celebrate when i can keep that number through the whole day. instead, i'm 125.8 right now.
once again, my mom ruined all of my day's hard work. she fucking bought cookies. soft baked, chocolate chunk cookies. soft-baked cookies are the hardest things for me to resist. now, i can resist buying them, but when they're just sitting on my counter... they're binge triggers.
i wasn't even hungry when i got home. i'd just had a very delicious, filling cup of 90 calorie soup.
....i ate two cookies straightaway.
and then i was going to have shumai for dinner. that's like 140 calories i think. ...no, my mom ate it while i was out. thanks, mom.
while full of soup and cookies, i had a big-ass bowl of chicken and dumpling soup.
and then a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
fuck me, it took a lot of effort to stop eating. if only i could put that much power into not eating in the first place.
those cookies seriously make me want to cry.
i feel so out of control.
i feel like such shit right now.
so yes, i have to do at least 4 minutes of sit-ups (approx. 150) to counteract some of the damage. those 500 sit-ups the other night, while i am proud of myself for completing them, they may have been a bit excessive. i could hear my neck... clicking, or something, during the last 50 or so.
sometimes i wish i could purge. i know that's a whole other mess of issues, and another path i don't want to go down, but sometimes i think it'd just be easier to get it all out of me than live with the guilt of eating, and feel the fat settle on my beautiful, emerging bones.
but i'm afraid of vomiting and i have paper-thin walls.
i almost tried it, once. except i was in public. kind of. my two-year-old cousin's birthday party. i ate the cake because i thought i could just get rid of it, except then i realized how many people (relatives, and friends of relatives) were in and out of that god damn restroom.
i don't know how to make my mom stop buying these things... mac and cheese, heavy soups, delicious cookies, reese's... because she knows i love them. and she doesn't do it often.... but how am i supposed to say "no, i really don't want these things i love." ....at least she hasn't bought ice cream in a while.
she already knows i'm trying to be healthy and control my portions and caloric intake, but i don't want to raise her eyebrows any more.
i feel hugely worthless right now.
at least i have therapy tomorrow.
shame it won't do any good, as it's not like i'm going to open up to him about my eating. i doubt he'd even believe me. yeah, i've lost 10 pounds, but i look as fat as ever.
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