18:13 - 06.08.2007
i hate mia

ich mag "to fuck around on the internet."

hopeless, i realize. i was trying to find an ed center around here. for bulimia. that isn't residential. there are 3 clinics in columbus, ohio that treat eating disorders. two are outpatient, but they will only treat anorexia and binge-eating. no bulimics allowed. the other one is not only residential, but uses psychotherapy as treatment. whenever i hear the word "psychotherapy," i think "electroshock therapy." and that horrible video clip we watched in psych 100 last spring. false association, i know, but...the fact remains that i'm not crazy; just sick. i want to see a doctor, not a psychiatrist.

did you know that we'll make great pets?

oh, i just want to get better so badly, but it seems like there's no outside help, and i don't feel strong enough to do it on my own.

chocolate laxative tea. my new addiction. tastes great--just as the box claimed, and works better than you would believe. wish i would have thought of that a long time ago.

i have no clue where my engagement ring is. but my fiance doesn't answer the phone when i call him, so i don't suppose it matters much. maybe it fell off when i was digging the peanut butter out of the trash can. maybe i just took it off and don't remember where i put it.

this week is the ohio state fair, and i really wanted to go, but i'm too bloated now. don't want people staring at me all fucking day. i get enough of that just going to work or the store.

also, i think i'm severly dehydrated. laxatives and diuretics will do that, you know. and salty snack food that's so easy to binge on.

my mother is pissed off about all the food disappearing. but, you know, if she wouldn't buy it, i wouldn't eat it all at once. or half. and if she wouldn't try to hide the other half from me, i wouldn't feel like it was forbidden and wouldn't go mad tearing apart the kitchen trying to have it. forbidden fruit, you know? i've told her eintausand times, if i've told her once, to keep it under her bed and not to let me know that we have it if she doesn't want it to all disappear. she actually went and wrote "no dipping--use a cup!" on all the jars of peanut butter because there is one old jar that's all drippy and gross. she thinks it's because of salty pretzels being dipped in it. i know it's because i mixed lard in with it to keep me from eating it. so then she writes my name on the drippy, lardtainted jar and tells me i have to eat it before i can have any of the other peanut butter. which made me feel isolated and wicked, so i fucking ate the whole jar of "no dipping" chunky peanut butter she bought yesterday. and for the record, i don't dip. i use a knife. i have some mannerisms left about me. and the fig cookies, too, that she tried to hide. and i knew that half of them were left. and she put them in a box of cereal, like she was saying that everyone but me was allowed to have them. so i got upset. and ate them all. without every realizing. so i went and bought her a new jar of peanut butter and bag of fig cookies as a means of apology. and she's still not happy.

what more can i do?

tempted to drive up to my fiance's work just to see if he's there. don't so much care how insane and bloated i am right now. i want to look him in the eye and burst into tears and ask how he could do this to me and not give a shit? and tell him that my best friend is trying so hard to help me, so why doesn't he give a shit? and i won't marry him unless/until i get better because i'm just too fucking sick right now. and see what i can see.

why is it, that, i go to one of the largest (or perhaps even the largest) universities in the united states of america with one of the biggest and best medical programs in the nation, and they do not have a walk-in clinic for eating disorders? osu does not even have residential care for bulimia--for anorexia, yes, they can refer you if you go through the psych ward first, but fucking shit for bulimics.

so this is all quite depressing, and is why i ended up looking for photos for one of my next art projects, having abandoned hope of finding a doctor who's willing to look at, let alone treat, or even acknowledge the existence of a bulimic swine.

tomorrow is another day; to live, or to die.