Sunday, 22 February 2009


Ok so, my new theory:

If I don't buy food, I can't eat it...

I've kept myself locked in my room the last few days and haven't really had anything left to eat in my flat other than tins of tuna (in water of course), some pieces of frozen chicken, frozen vegetables and porridge oats. The porridge oats have probably been my biggest downfall. Porridge and bread are my favourite binge foods, I can easily eat 4 bowls of porridge or a whole loaf of bread... I haven't bought bread in months... and I never buy milk anymore either, but I just can't get rid of the porridge! It really is one of the last things in the world that enables me to cope! (I make it with water not milk to save on calories) - tastes a bit naff, but still gives me the motivational kick I need!

I've also discovered Nakd bars - if you haven't heard of them, find them! Basically, despite my eating disorder and desire not to eat, I am also completely obsessed with getting all my vitamins etc. I could never starve myself completely because I have to have my 5 portions of fruit and veg every day (or as close as I can get). Nakd bars are basically bars of compressed fruit and nothing else! Kinda like a solid smoothie if you like...
So, I've ordered two boxes of 24 bars, and my idea is to have one or two a day instead of meals (well...I don't eat meals anyway...but at mealtimes...) and that way I'll stay full (cos they are really filling), get in my 5 a day AND be having less than 500 calories a day easily!
Flawless plan.... I hope, we'll see how it goes!

Last night was another eventful one.
Ahh it's all about getting stupidly drunk and shamefully embarrassing while you're at uni...

A large group of my friends were having a bit of a social so after hesitating at first (cos I know what happens when I go a bit wild) I joined them. I have a pretty large social network through a society that I'm a part of at university, so when I say friends, most of them are really just acquaintances that I get on with... There were about 25-30 people to start with, all playing the standard drinking games. When I walked in, I immediately saw James sitting bang slap in the middle. I groaned inwardly and immediately regretted my decision to come. I did however applaud my decision to make a really big effort to look nice. I'd spent ages doing my hair and choosing my outfit, and was pretty pleased with my turnout. Shame about the chubbyness of my face at the moment, but weight aside it wasn't too bad.
Anyway, like I say, I saw James and a little part of me died... primarily because I hadn't tidied my room, waxed my necessary areas and was far too fat to have sex confidently. (Yes I assumed that after our recent conversations via text that the next time I saw him we would have sex.) So, of course, he's all charming and flirty in his usual manner and I can't help but be all mushy over him too. The only thing with James is that he knows about my eating disorder, and every time I see him it turns into a him questioning me in 'concern' and giving me a stupid lecture about how curvy women are beautiful, blah blah blah. And I usually just get really pissed off with him. Standard. A little bit later in the evening, Simon (from New Years Eve) turns up and I think my luck can't be getting much more awkward! We also have a chat (aka an outrageously MASSIVE flirt) and it was all great fun. I do love flirting.
So, by the time we all decide to hit the clubs, there are only about 10 or so of us left. Me and two of my best girlfriends, James, Simon, another guy called Peter and some others. By this time I was already pretty battered and being the noisy, over-confident idiot that I become when I am drunk. I kept on drinking more...lord knows why, cos I really didn't need it! Had a bit of a dance, lots more chats, lots more flirting... I don't really have a full recollection of the night...
Anyway, pretty near the end James had disappeared and I felt a bit downhearted - it's not nice to know that an easily pleased slut has decided not to sleep with you.
For some reason, I got into a taxi with my friend Rachel, Simon and Peter. Simon got out somewhere. Then Rachel got out somewhere. And then me and Peter found ourselves back where we had come from in the taxi with the taxi driver demanding us for a £7 fare that neither of us could pay (I had lost my purse at some point during this messy night). Apparently during this I was unconscious on the floor of the all this has been told to me this morning. Peter gave the taxi driver his watch, we got out the taxi and walked back to mine (which was 2 minutes from the club we had just left anyway so I have no idea why the hell I got into the taxi in the first place...)
So Peter stayed at mine.
Nothing happened until the morning when he persisted and persisted to try and have sex with me. Like really, that guy is fucking persistent!! I let him touch me and gave him a little kiss back, but was just like nah, I am far too fat, far too sober and there's far too much daylight for me to be able to get naked!!! So I was good and refused. :) I felt very pleased with myself. I like Peter, we've been mates for a while and he has a fantastic body, but I just don't really fancy him that much - can't help that!
Oh...yeah he also has a girlfriend (another cheating bastard! I love them). He's said quite openly before that he's just staying with her cos it's easier and not because he loves her anymore, and I know he's slept with a some other girls I know, but still... it wasn't really good enough to win me over.

So this morning after Peter left, I got my purse back (Rachel had it, and in the process had left her bag on a street somewhere...don't ask...) turns out she was in a worse state than me and had gotten out of the taxi at some random place and had to be rescued by a boy. (I don't know where she got out clearly cos I was so out of it in the taxi.) Traded funny stories with her and it turns out that she had been pulling Peter all night - he's a cheeky fucking bastard! (she doesn't remember any of it, I was too drunk to have noticed and err yeah...) So there we go. Good night out.

Got a phone call from James this evening telling me that I had left him a voicemail message on his mobile phone after he left. I do remember being pissed off that he had left and trying to ring him, but was completely unaware that I had gone and left him messages! Shit. You see, I told you I was an annoying little brat when I get drunk...
Genuinely appalled at myself for humiliating myself in such a manner, I apologised and asked what I had said, knowing it was probably pretty bad. According to James, I was pissed off that he had left and not had sex with me... hmmm... I'm not sure if I actually said those words or that was the general impression that he got from my verbal abuse. At any rate, embarrassing, yes, and probably the end of our 'friendship'.
I promptly text my friend to tell her what James had just told me, adding, "I probably meant every harsh word I said, he deserves it." And instead of sending it to her, sent it to James instead. Oh yeah, turn up the heat on the humiliation dial! Soooooo definitely not looking forward to having to see him again.

This Wednesday it is the 21st birthday of my girl friend above, and we've all planned a massive night out.
Mission One: Don't eat till Wednesday so I look really hot.
Mission Two: Corner Oliver and shout abuse at him (I just really want to)
Mission Three: Not pull or sleep with anyone (doing very well on this so far! Didn't sleep with James, Simon or Peter last night!!!!)
Mission Four: Have a fucking good time with my gorgeous girl friends!

Friday, 13 February 2009


It has been a rough week to say the least.

I haven't been into uni all week. Not once. Why? Because I'm a lazy, fat, drunken slut and I want to ruin my life as much as fucking possible.

I need someone to fucking tread on me tonight and make me cry my eyes out. I really need to cry, get down on my knees and scream my lungs out, smash up all my posessions, slash my curtains and paint streaks of red acress my walls. Shit. It's fucking raging inside of me. I need to cut myself.

but I have held off for so 3/4 weeks or something I think?

To try and get out some of this anger I have drawn red lines across my arms and legs. Apparently that is supposed to help because it looks like bleeding cuts, and I get that thrill and sense of satisfaction but without the permanent scars...
but still, like I say, I need some pain, I need something to make me scream and cry and go crazy at.
I have written the usual hate messages across my body in black marker pen: 'I will not eat', 'Fat bitch' etc etc

I ended up with Simon (another one, not New Years Eve Simon) on Monday. We had spent the night together a few times leading up to Christmas, but he has a girlfriend so it was a no go. He asked me round to sew on some things to his shirt...and cut a long story straight we ended up going clubbing, getting smashed and fucking.
Then this girl turns up who was the reason for Oliver turning into a cunt with me because Oli was getting with her whilst getting with me... and I really hate her cos she's an absolute piece of trash, and she knows I absolutely hate her, but she turns up at Simon's, and... well I don't really know what else to say...all three of us were in his bed.

So of course she told Oli and he told the rest of the world, and he had a good laugh in my face. And we had a few fucked up converstaions. Meanwhile I am sending shameful texts to James who is leading me on and not following up. And on Wednesday I get really drunk again, tell people loads of stuff I should really be ashamed of and how much I want to get with Oli, end up trying to go home with Simon again, and blah blah fucking blah.

Like what the fuck.

So of course, cos I've gone off the rails with the men, I go completely fucked up with the eating and stuff myself senseless and lock myself up in my room.

I want to never eat again.

I'm literally on the edge of my nerves. I've just popped extra pills to try and have some sort of an effect, I am so low right now I'm fucking reeling and shaking.

God damn shit. I will never fucking tell you. Yes I LIE. I LIE TO YOU OK! HOW CAN I EVER REVEAL THIS FUCKED UP PIECE OF TRASH THAT I AM TO YOU?!

I need to see blood

Thursday, 5 February 2009

Snow cold and Skinny

I’m sitting on the train at the moment because I’ve been at home for the weekend – expect it was a weekend that extended to Thursday! I don’t where you are reading this, but my hometown is London, England. On Sunday night and all through Monday we were hit by the heaviest snow in 18 years. This resulted in the whole of our glorious capital city being effectively shut down! No big red buses roaming the streets, no trains and hardly even any taxis! Shameful? Just a bit. So anyway, no one could get to work, and I doubt most people even stepped outside their front door. Four days later and the snow is still sitting thick on the ground and hasn’t melted an inch! It’s absolutely foreign.

You should have seen me this morning dragging my lead-weight suitcase through the thick-set ice and snow on the paths. It was horrific! There was absolutely no point on having wheels on the bloody thing because it just wouldn’t move! So of course I was late, missed my trains, had to buy another really expensive ticket and my back is killing! I did my back in already from shovelling all the snow from our garden path and now with the suitcase this morning, it has completely died!
My trip away this weekend with my group at uni is basically a physical exercise where I have to walk speedily with a bloody 20 kilkogram weight on my back. Pray for a speedy recovery!

Anyway while I’m on the train I shall post a little rant.
Don’t you just hate it when super skinny people sit there eating junk food in front of your face! Argh!
It’s so fucking hard and so fucking expensive to eat healthy.

Anyway I have really reached an ultimatum. This is the end of my bulimia. I can’t eat normally, so the only alternative is to go back to anorexia. I cannot eat a normal meal without carrying on to a massive binge, and I can’t have a massive binge without throwing up. The fact is, I just cannot eat without throwing up. The only way I can recover from bulimia is to stop eating all together. The second I eat anything, I count up all the calories I have just consumed and then something in my head says it’s too much and I need to throw up, so something else in my head says that I may as well stuff myself with all the shit lying around and make it easier to throw it all up in one go.

I bought four magazines at the newsagent before I got on the train. Sometimes when things are just really shit and my bum is a flobby piece of grossness, I need some mega hits of thinspiration. I love the models in magazines, I love the glamour, I love their stick thin arms and super skinny legs that look like they’re carved from smoothest steel. I love their sharp cheekbones. I love their absolute, complete perfection. I don’t care if it’s fucking photoshopped. It’s perfect, and that’s what I want more than anything.

I will not stop until I look like a girl on the cover of a magazine.

I will die trying because my life is not worth living if I look like anything less.


I said the word to James. Two nights ago, via text message: “When are we starting the list?”
I sent it at about 1 a.m. 48 hours later and he still hasn’t replied, which is most unlike him. I don’t think he’s ever not replied to me in the whole time that I know him. James is the kind of guy who prides himself on being a gentleman even though everyone knows he is nothing of the kind underneath his clear-cut English accent and polished charm. Perhaps this is how he wins so many girls into bed with him? Well, needless to say, I still expect a reply at some point; unless he was having sex at the time I sent it or was similarly engaged with a girl of some description and therefore did not register receiving my text.
Well, anyway it’s not a big deal to me, it was only going to be a past time to keep me amused.

Another guy that featured a lot in my life last year was Oliver. (Perhaps I should start using false names in this blog in case I get identified…but then I’d only start getting confused about who I’m talking about!)
I am 21 and Oliver is 18. Born in July 1990 would you believe! Practically as young as you can get in a fresher at uni! Bad times. A whole three years younger than me. (And yes, the sex was bad.) But some terrible things happened with him (see the post ‘Being so caught up’). Anyway I was supposed to be going away this weekend with a group I’m involved in at uni and had made my mind up not to go because I didn’t want him to see me and how fat and ugly I am at the moment. Cos man, I AM SO FUCKING FAT RIGHT NOW!

Anyway I gonna brave it and go because I need the money. I might buy some false eyelashes to cheer myself up.

By the way, I’m going to see The Pussycat Dolls and Lady Gaga supporting them tonight! Little bit excited for some fully live and awesomely hot thinspiration!!!! Jesus, I would actually do anything in the world to be as hot as any one of them. Just IMAGINE.

I’ve had one single recurring image which has haunted me constantly over the past few days. Every moment I let my mind wander slightly it comes to the forefront of my thoughts.
I haven’t self-harmed for about two weeks – not since I decided to go swimming and realised once I reached the pool that my legs resembled a work of gothic modern art. I swam anyway. I’ve never felt the need to hide my scars, expect from my mum. If people see the marks and know I self-harm, so what? I don’t need to justify myself to anyone, I really have never felt the need to hide them or be ashamed in that sense. The only thing I hate is of course that it somewhat ruins my quest for beauty and perfection. What is the point of having a super hot body in a super hot dress when your arms have brown and purple lines all over them.
Anyway, this recurring image is of sticking knives in my thighs. I know you probably don’t want to know this, but I need to write about it. I can’t get it out of my head. Just this image of sticking long sharp blades deep into my thighs, one at a time, methodologically, going straight through my les, pinning me down where I lie. I would get so much satisfaction from doing that.

Of course I wouldn’t do it.

I’ve have hidden all knives away from me.

Monday, 2 February 2009

I know...

The best thing about my ‘illness’ is that it is a self-fulfilling prophecy. In fearing that I am ugly and fat, I make my fears a reality by eating mountains upon mountains of food and vomiting as much as I can back up again.
Of course, every self-help book I pick up says the same old thing: "Vomiting only gets rid of 30-50% of calories in the food you have just eaten." Considering my binges can contain between 2,000 to 5,000 calories in one sitting, you can see how bulimia can make you very fat, very quickly.
Not to mention the teeth that will soon start dropping out of my already despised smile.

But this is the thing about an eating disorder and mental illnesses in general – they do not recognise sense or logic. I know that bulimia makes me fat. I can feel my teeth and oesophagus eroding away every time I spew my stomach acid through them. I know that I am ruining my body, ruining my health and ruining my life – but it doesn’t really register… or rather, it doesn’t really matter. These plain, hard facts will not make me stop, even though my logic knows that my actions are pushing my further away from the dreams of perfection that drove me to them in the first place.

It’s like when I went to the eating disorders nurse last year. Every Tuesday it was the same, I will spill my heart out and feel like a fool. I would tell her how stupid I was and how stupid I knew it was, and she would reaffirm it. She would tell me over and over what I already knew. I know how I should eat and I know why I should stop. People misunderstand that my illness is caused by a distortion in my head – but there is no distortion – I see myself plainly and clearly in the mirror. I know that bulimia makes me put on weight. I know that my teeth are rotting. I know that I am ruining the life of a beautiful, intelligent, 21 year old girl. I KNOW. I can read a hundred books telling me to stop; I can go to a hundred nurses telling me how to change. I can write it on my arms in marker pens or on posters all around my room. I can understand it. But I cannot do it.

Every time I eat a loaf of bread or a box of cereal I kneel in front of the toilet swearing that tomorrow I will stop eating forever.
I know I cannot do it.

Sunday, 1 February 2009


Firstly, thank you.
Caiten, whoever and wherever you are, that one comment meant so much to me. It was a shock and a truly great comfort.

At the same time, I was also very shaken. I have come out: This other identity, this dark side of me, this unspoken monster that I really am. Now I know she exists, alive and free from her chains, and it's a scary prospect, for in revealing this monster, I am also acknowledging her. My illness is not a secret anymore - it is real and I cannot deny it, for this page is living proof of its existence and its power over me.

My heart desires to give so much more to this blog, to post photos of myself, my mum, my friends, my university town, my hometown, my room, the boys I liked, the places I have been... I want to share my memories, and these huge images of who I am.
But this page must remain just words for now. I fear even telling you what University I am at...
This leads me to question why I am so afraid of being discovered...

I am ashamed of this identity. I am ashamed of my mental illness because for me, it is and always will be the evil part of me. Nothing about what I have written in this blog is anything to be proud of. It's weak, it's shameful and it's disgraceful. I know that, and that is why I write anonymously.

For who on earth would want credit for words inspired by a corrupt soul?
This is an exorcism of that evil identity who, in my daily life, I keep chained inside my dark bedroom.