I faint a lot.
I’ve stopped eating much more than mother, chocolate and whatever R doesn’t eat.
I eat when I’m bored and then purge.
The skin is repulsion and I hate it and I hate myself. I fantasise about carving it off my body.
I watch documentaries on anorexia for inspiration.
This noise in my head is relentless – I can’t go back there. I can’t be that girl any more. That 135kg monster – I carry her all the time.
I need to sort this.
I am better than this – it’s control. The numbers dictate my mood, but the rest is control. And that fucked up brain pan that says he’ll stay if you’re pretty and he’ll like you if you’re smaller.