I am. My mind can't agree with my body on whether it wants to eat, so I end up eating like a pig. Calories ooze down my throat like cold-weather mucus, making me want to puke with each laboured swallow. I doubt myself every time, thinking I can recover, but recovery isn't for me. With each lost pound, I get that much stronger. With each submission to this false god, food, I get weaker. If I can't survive without stuffing my face full and feeling fatter with each passing second, adding to the reasons I hate myself, I might as well
Just. Stop. Eating.
I didn't count calories, but I imagine I'm in the 1800-2000 range.
So much for the record.
I'll totally break it tomorrow. Promise.
Love,
Micah
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