Binges equate to me eating several regular people's meals a day, and for the most part, I'm purging them all. I've been throwing up in my car mostly, because I have three roommates and it's hard to explain. I haven't really been *that* open about the bulimic tendencies, and I don't know how to broach the subject now that it's getting worse... again. I'm definitely relapsing. Almost every day this week, let alone this month, I've purged my food. Whether it was a complete meal, a snack, I've been purging. I don't like the feel of food in my stomach. I hate the way I look, the way my body feels. I don't like the reflection in the mirror because it reminds me how far I've fallen off the wayside. I had my shit together there, for a minute. No more.

And it's getting worse.

I gave in. A few days ago, I found a syringe. I shot up. I didn't even really get what I was going for. The taste, I didn't get it, not like I was wanting or expecting. I got high, yes, my pulse sped up and I got high, yes. But it wasn't like how I wanted it. It wasn't right. And so I threw away six months of being clean off the needle for nothing.

I'm not going to do it again. No, I'm not. I can't afford that shit. It isn't worth it. It isn't. I have to remember this, for the next time the temptation, the depression, makes me reckless and fearful. Because it isn't the need or the desire, anymore, it's just fear. Solid, unadulterated, pitiful fear.

I can't believe I did it. I'm disgusted with myself. But I can't, I won't, let that bring me back down into the depths of that horror I know so well. I'm not going there. I can't. I just can't.

Please, if there's a god, a higher being, please help me master the weaker parts of myself. Because I am weak... and I don't know how long I can hold on if I go back down that road.

Fuck.