Monotonous.

The best way to describe my life at this present moment is as being monotonous. Nothing seems to change. I wake in the same place, feeling the same way i felt when i lay my head the previous night. I go through the same motions, the minute details may change slightly but the outcome and general routine is pretty much identical, day in and day out.

The weekends are the worst. I hate them so much because of the pure monotony of them. I wake up on a Saturday morning, normally in the small hours, in some sort of pain in my bulging torso. I continue with the same old routine, the one that hasn't changed for weeks and months. I am back and forth to the toilet, sometimes sleeping on the floor outside the toilet door just because it hurts too much to keep running backwards and forwards, i may as well sleep there. Later in the day, ill realise that i can't actually get the thought of food out of my mind and that i need to do something to counteract whatever damage i am going to end up doing. Down goes another blister pack of Dulcolax and up goes my mood. Only momentarily, because then i am in the kitchen, i am organising the cupboards, emptying the fridge, filling it back up in colour order, height order... I am stood throwing things into the bin, vowing to never eat anything that vaguely resembles junk food, ever again. I then go and i lay in my bed, with the blankets wrapped tightly around my body, praying for this to just stop and for it to go away. Sometimes, i find myself rocking, as a way of comforting myself from the horrid feelings in my mind, in my body. Then, the possession takes over again, i jump up and i am in the kitchen and the oven is on. I have dug the food out of the bin, like always and I am throwing biscuits down my neck, there is toast in the toaster and then before i know it, my head is down the toilet. I'm back in the kitchen and DINGDING the food in the oven is cooked, so i get it out and i burn myself because i eat it too quickly when it is too hot. Now, im opening tins, pouring out cereal and i am scared. I am scared of when this is going to finally end. The thought of the numbers on the scale, in the morning, crosses my mind and then i throw more food down my throat. Some more biscuits? Yes please. And my head is down the toilet and my throat is raw, there is snot down my face, my tear stained face.

I go to bed and i lay in the covers, clutching my stomach, i need more laxatives. Twenty more? Yes, that will make me feel better. A few hours later, i'm doubled over in pain and my stomach is excruciatingly painful, even to touch.

The next hours are a haze. It is only comparable to a drunken daze, you're high on calories and low on life, you feel nothing and yet you feel everything. You're taking up so much space, what a whale!

And you go to bed.

'Tomorrow, i will fast. I am never eating again'

Rinse and repeat