The Bloody D *Self-harm Trigger Warning*

I cut and wrote a D in my skin. It stands for Don’t fucking eat.

Don’t expect anyone to love you. 

Don’t sit around on your butt today. 

Don’t eat, you fat whore.

Disgusting, that’s what you are. 

Don’t even think about eating that. 

All this and so much more.

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I had to stop, and I hate that

Two hours into my workout, I had to stop.

I couldn’t breathe, I was very dizzy and nearly falling off the bike and losing my vision (which is the precursor to passing out), and my side felt like I had torn it open. What the hell?

So, I very reluctantly stopped. I hated myself for stopping. I hated my body for not doing what I wanted it to do. I hated that stopping meant leaving myself vulnerable to binging and purging.

I’ve had 12 grapes today. I’m afraid to eat more. I don’t understand how I can be terrified to eat and simultaneously binge. I have the stupidest brain in the world.

So, I’m resting now. I tried drinking water, but it was making me nauseous, so I stopped that. My plan is to avoid eating, rest, and exercise some more before bed.

I see the mental health guy again in the morning. I’m not looking forward to it for multiple reasons, one of which being that he keeps telling me to go to the doctor and I keep forgetting to actually call my doctor and set up an appointment. Ugh. I’m going to try to remember to do that in the morning before I leave for my appointment. I wrote myself a sticky note. Wish me luck.