Purge purge purge

I felt myself losing control that very first week. 

No workouts. No trainer. I couldn't even choose my intake. The guilt was building and growing and becoming stronger than me. Rice, butter, juice... that meal was enough to make me sad but not enough to make me hate myself, not enough to act on it. Then the group went to get ice cream. 'Nope, not doing it' I told myself, and sat at a table by myself to wait for the group. Lexi begs me to get it with her so she doesn't feel guilty. She has no idea how different our Guilts are going to be. I cave, I get a scoop of Dulce de Leche, I hate every bite of it. 

Maybe it was the ice cream that triggered me. I love purging ice cream... it's effortless, and it tastes the same going in as it does coming up. After two bites, the Whisper that's constantly in the back of my head spoke up. Purge it. Lose it. Get it out. Gigantic. Fat. And that other person inside of me that was dormant for almost two months took over. I grabbed my water bottle out of my backpack as we walked back and chugged it, lukewarm, the only thing that mattered at that moment. I nervously sat down and waited for others to use the bathroom first so I could take my time. Like a zombie, all I can do before a purge is stare and count calories and hate myself. I can't focus on anything else, and I definitely can't take it back.

That was week one of the trip. 

Purging continued from there maybe 2 or 3 times a week. By week four and five, it was every other day. Now, it's every day. If not more. I just ate two cookies for breakfast and before even touching them to my tongue I knew I'd be purging them up shortly after. This is what I despise more than anything: eating with intention to purge. Because then, it's not an accident you didn't see coming. It's an accident you're approaching head on, full speed, with your lights on. 

Home now and struggling. Much love xo