February 05, 2017

Reposted from MPA (my original post - wanted to save it here for personal reasons)

Okay, I've been bulimic since I was 14. I'm 23 now.
In October 2016, I started taking Prozac to handle my anxiety and bulimia. At first, it was wonderful. I stopped self harming, didn't even want to do it anymore. Then it stopped working. Fine, whatever, I was only on 20mg/day, so my psych told me to wait another month, then we would meet up and go over how things were going. Well, this meeting rolls around and I (honestly) tell her that everything's worse, I can't stop drinking, everything is too much and too overwhelming and I'm more manic than I've ever been before. She goes, okay I'll just up your dose to 30mg/day. And I'm sitting there like, please take me the fuck off this, my bulimia hasn't been this bad since high school.

Alright. I take the 30mg/day for about 2 months. Everything is getting worse and worse and I'm just holding on to when I meet with her again, which was supposed to be this monday (february 6). Except 2 days ago, I decided I was done. I don't need a shitty psychiatrist who doesn't listen to me putting me on medication that is doing more harm than good that I never wanted to try in the first place. So I skip that morning's dose of Prozac. That day, I'm great. Take a few shots of vodka to start off my day, boyfriend gets home from work and I'm practically dancing around, the picture of health and productivity. 

Yesterday, once again, didn't take any Prozac. Except I feel kind of tired and sad. Still have most of my bottle of vodka left so I take like... a few shots? Which turns into about half the bottle. Shit hits the fan. I don't know how I got from fucking around on Tumblr to throwing up in the bathroom. I honestly don't remember much. But my boyfriend gets home around 2, shortly before. And he finds me shaking and crying on the bathroom floor, fingers deep inside my throat. Whenever he tries to pull my fingers out of my mouth, I push him away, threaten to kick him, scream, go back to throwing up. Eventually I'm too tired to even sit up, so I just lay there shaking violently on the bathroom floor, moving my head up a little to throw up. I'm supposed to be at work at 5, so I'm fairly certain I have plenty of time to get this out of my system and be at work as usual.

Nope. Boyfriend goes "babe, it's 4:30, come on, you have to get ready for work soon!" I can't see, sit up, stop shaking. Work is not going to happen. He calls my workplace and tells them I'm really sick, I might be an hour late. I'm about an hour and a half late. After throwing up from 1:30pm to about 6pm. Practically non stop. Throw up again when I get to work, can barely walk, standing is impossible, so I smile, try to hide it, stare at how cut and bruised up my entire hand is from hours of purging. Though by the end of that, my body was just throwing up water (I was trying to stay hydrated) without any help from me, I just couldn't keep anything down.

Come home from work, dizzy, have to clutch the handrail and wall to get up the stairs to my apartment. My boyfriend is incredibly sweet and hugs me, holds me. I go take a shower, admire the bruises on my knees and arms and my fucked up hand. Am I sick now? Sure, I've been purging multiple times a day (on and off) since I was in high school, but that doesn't mean I'm *sick*. Is this proof that there's something wrong with me? Am I finally worthy of care, attention, help? Probably not, but the boyfriend is insisting I get help. I can't blame him. It was selfish of me to put him through that.

This morning, I had breakfast. Half a glass of water and a cup of mixed spinach, peppers, and peas. I kept it down. It felt weird as fuck. It felt wrong. Why would I keep food down? Who the fuck keeps food down? Hell, I throw up tea and diet soda when I haven't eaten that day. I don't like things inside me. 

I don't know why I wrote all this. I don't know if anyone will read this. All I know is I'm terrified and I know I need help and I'm probably going to check out a few psychs in the area tomorrow, try to find one who won't ignore me when I say "this medication I'm on is making me worse than I've ever been before". I don't think I'll recover from my eating disorder. I don't think I have an eating disorder, it's just the way I live. Like, there's no other relationship I could possibly have with food. I've tried, it doesn't stick. I always go back to shoving my fingers down my throat. 

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