twelve.

Holy shit. I looked at the date and nearly had a heart attack. How the hell is it Friday already?! I mean, it just turned into Friday but still! Jesus. I've been stuck inside my house for two days straight because of this insane blizzard. It does not help matters.

I have a problem with food. As if that wasn't completely obvious. But not in that I want to eat less and less of it. I constantly have to shove food in my mouth. If I'm not completely occupied, I stray to food. My stomach has rumbled maybe three times in the past two days. Completely unacceptable. I eat for taste and texture and something to do with my hands. I've suspected for years that I have an oral fixation and I'm beginning to think it might actually be true. I'm glad I hate the smell of cigarettes or else I'd probably take that up too. I just...I can't say no. My brain just screams at me to eat something. It's so delicious, it's okay. You've lost so much, just eat as much as you want. And I do. I shudder to think of how many calories and how much fat I've absorbed in this past week. I've been avoiding the scale for days. Until tonight. My mom brought home cinnamon twists. I love them. I cut one in half and told myself I could only eat it if I wasn't disgusted by what the scale said. And my god. It read 118.5. Are. You. Serious. I know it has to be completely broken now. There is NO WAY that I can shove my face full of food near constantly for two or three days and only weigh half a pound more than my low weight. The only times I've moved was yesterday afternoon when I shoveled snow outside for maybe an hour and a half. That was it. Today I've left my computer for food and the bathroom. Nothing else. So there is no fucking way in the entire goddamn universe that I lost weight. I know I should be happy that it's that low, but it just makes me angry. Because I know it has to be wrong. And I feel like it's lying to me on purpose. Trying to get me to eat more and get fatter so when I finally get to a scale that works the number it'll say will just make me want to kill myself. It's fucking cruel.

Tomorrow I'm finally escaping my hell house for my boyfriend's again. We've got four movies to watch, one of them Blu-Ray, so it should be a good day. I love movies. A lot. And while I usually eat at his house, I'm still self-concious enough (or perhaps controlled enough) to not constantly be munching something. I won't promise tomorrow will be no food, but I'm sure as hell going to actually try. I won't lie. I have been putting in absolutely no effort to restrict myself lately. I've let my fat cells have control because I just couldn't bring myself to care about a damn thing. No more. Spring will be here before you know it and god fucking dammit I will be able to wear short shorts and a tank top and feel fucking amazing about myself. I have to.

Don't give up on me.

Eedee.