And That's When I Put My Hands Around the Only Thing That Made Sense

Brainmedicine.

That's what these extra calories are. There's no way that I can eat this little and not lose weight. It's scientifically impossible. I'm only eating what I have to eat to keep my organs alive.

This is what I tell myself so I don't want to kill myself or throw a temper tantrum after I down an additional X calories every day. "It's still a starvation diet, it's still a starvation diet, I just took brain medicine, that's all. Like a vitamin."

Lorazepam was still required after I tossed and turned in bed for three hours last night, oscillating between crying and moaning softly and having to force a pillow in between my thighs so I couldn't even imagine them touching. They'regonnatouchthey'regonnatouch it's getting so close I can feel it... PILLOW. Wham. Problem solved. But then I had to start whining about my arms against my ribcage and it's not bony enough, I can feel the valley between my stomach and pelvis and it's not concave enough and I just FEEL the FAT all over my fucking DISGUSTING BODY and so, yeah, it was time for some GABA inhibitors.

I have come to the conclusion that recovery is just not possible at this juncture in my life. Honestly, if this is what I go through when I'm severely restricting, I cannot imagine what it would be like if I were trying to gain.

I've been really anti-recovery l

ately. Not pro-ana (because I wouldn't wish this on anyone), but definitely pro-AJ-being-ana. I drag myself to therapy, not to get better, but just so I don't have to keep all this bullshit inside. Just unloading helps me feel sane. But there's no motivation. I don't know where it went. It was legitimately 100% recovery-ready back in July/August, and by the time I got back from visiting my parents I had decided I was going to "take a break" from recovery (whatever the hell that was supposed to mean) and then once the school year was back in full swing, about a month in, I was like, yeah, I totally don't give a shit anymore. But by early October I most certainly gave a shit -- in the other direction. Gave a shit about getting sicker. Gave a shit about running from recovery. Gave a shit about giving into the eating disorder fully and completely. Gave a shit about shitting all over my life.

But my life feels as though it's in stasis anyhow. Nothing new is happening; not in school, not with relationships, not with anything. That's actually a perfect way to describe it. My life is in stasis. It's not going anywhere. I don't have anything to look forward to. I have things to dread: another class I've already taken. Another project I've already done. Another guy I have to avoid seeing because I don't want him to see my disgusting naked body. Another encounter with another group of people I have to preten

d to like. Another early morning for which even the sun is too fatigued to shine. Another trip to my dietitian's office where she gets to see my horrendous weight. And this is the routine.

Fuck anyone who thought repeating a year would be good for me.