It all happened incredibly fast. My last boyfriend and I broke up about 2 months ago. I was okay for a while, I was actually starting to move on...and then he sucked me back in. That was about 3 weeks ago. And then he ended up telling me that he doesn't even really think about me anymore and was incredibly cruel in some of the things he said to me. It didn't make any fucking sense. First, he wants me around, and then he doesn't.
I completely lost it. My sanity was rocked by that asshole and his games, and I couldn't fight the urges anymore. I gave in, and have been on a spiral back into my bulimia and self-injury. I've cut about 4 times in the last 2-3 weeks.
The thing is, I don't really want to stop. I want to get back to the weight I used to be before inpatient. Bulimia, as destructive as it is, makes me feel better. I know it shouldn't, but it really does give me an identity. It's mine. Bulimia is there for me when no one else is. It never leaves me, never abandons me. Lady Gaga once said, "My music will never wake up next to me one day and tell me it doesn't love me anymore." Honestly, that's how I feel about my bulimia. It has comforted me when no one else did. It lulls me to sleep at night when I'm restless and sad. It gives my mind a release when I need a break from the storm of thoughts and noise that flood it. It brings me peace, even if its from physical weakness and fatigue, it is still SOME sort of peace.
About a month ago I told my therapist, "Instead of talking about it all the time, part of me just wants to accept that it will always be a part of who I am, put it in the back of my mind, and go on with life. Maybe I can manage it to a certain degree over the course of my life, but I'm tired of talking about it and fighting it constantly." I guess I should have known that I was heading for a relapse at that point.
I am, once again, hurting and broken....and I don't know any other way to handle it.
