Except that he won't talk to me, now. I don't know what I did wrong, if anything. It only reinforces the cruel self-loathing that's been rising up. It only reinforces what it whispers to me, and it only makes me feel less.

He won't talk to me. Why won't he talk to me? I don't know what I did wrong.

I wish he would just tell me. He was the one that emphasized being honest, communicating, not fucking around with each other's emotions. So why is he doing just that?

Fuck.

I thought he was different.

And the parade of self-destruction only grows.

You want to know what he said, just a few moments ago?
That his phone was off. He just turned it back on. I don't know whether to hold onto my self-righteousness and anger and hurt, or believe him. He's going to hurt me, either way. He already has.

God damn it.

Small Update,

A. I'm seeing somebody. He is taller than me, smart, funny, attractive, and my hormones go wonky around him. It's a new experience. I'm trying not to get in the way of myself. We were "dating" until a couple days ago, when he stated he wants what we have going, but he doesn't want the title of "boyfriend/ girlfriend". I do understand where he's coming from. It just hurts. I'm frustrated, I'm fighting off the creeping self-loathing that's trying to convince me I'm not good enough, not worth this, that he's making distance between us because he sees how repulsive I am, and he wants nothing to do with me but to fuck my body. I believe this is just the disease taking over, trying to sink its talons in and make me fuck this up, fuck this good thing I have going, because it is better for this fucking disease to have me alone and miserable than to have someone who may actually care.

B. I'm relapsing. I am eating incredibly disgusting amounts of food, mostly in secret, and then infrequently purging, maybe two or three times a week, and two or three times each session. It's getting out of hand. I can feel the monsters stirring. Things are beginning to go awry within my mind, again. I fear it.

C. I have a job, now, working at a hotel, third shift. This leaves me a few days a week to run errands and take care of daytime responsibilities, some of which actually exist. Instead, I spend quite a bit of time sleeping. It is nearly impossible to pull myself out of my bed, and the hypnotic world of my dreams. As the sun goes down, I rise.

I believe this is still, slowly, killing me.

And I am doing it to myself, all over again, only a slightly different flavor, new scenery.

At least I now live with some incredible, amazing people. People who I love and who love me. I must remember this, and not allow this crippling wave I feel coming upon me to convince me otherwise... or convince them, otherwise, that it's safest not to care, not to love me.

I need the help, now more than ever.

I know no one reads this blog, or cares. We all have enough going on in our own lives, and mine is totally insignificant in comparison. I am not asking for pity, nor advice. I just ask that if there is somebody out there who is reading these words, who feels anything at all, any kinship... Please let me know. And know that I am, I am still... here.