I was trying to recover. I really was. After hitting a low point last spring, hardly attending any of my classes, and failing my honors thesis, I worked hard at getting better over the summer.
Then I moved home in August, back to alcoholism and emotional abuse, no job, and no friends. This began a cycle of binging, and purging, not always related to one another. So I gained almost 10lbs, and have gone to what I consider to be the more visceral side of the ED spectrum. Though I think technically I still don't qualify for having an eating disorder under the medical standards, so at least I have that false hope to cling to. Right?
So I just can't anymore. I will probably see you back here soon, whomever is left. I shouldn't, and I don't necessarily want to, but I have to. It's in every sloshing, slurping bite my father takes, the dripping, disgusting noises he makes when spitting half-chewed forbidden items into the garbage*. It's in every time I don't get to decide what or how much I eat, and the shit I get for not having a proper job or career path yet. It's in every decision I make that gets overridden by my overbearing mother or drunken father. It's in my widening thighs and growing stomach and that fat roll on my arm. I can see it. I have to. It's all I have left, really.
It's a focus in my entirely unfocused life.
*My father has a medical problem, and he can't have certain foods, especially fibrous ones. So instead he chews and spits.