My Success and My mania: Hand-In-Hand

Recent s**t thats been on my chest

After losing 20 pounds in two first months of working, I was ecstatic!
I could grab my hips and see the tendons in my hands, that was enough to know for sure I could be happy with no strings.
Everyone told me I'd lose it too, but before I lost it I was content with my image. Accepting, even. Of course, I hated myself, but I convinced myself that no-one wanted to hear about another fat girl, crying about her weight and doing nothing about it.
I'd look in a mirror and my mind would squeeze me into cookie-cutter girls with cookie cutter faces.
I'd fantasize about cutting away the void on my skin and discovering the skinny girl who was swallowed whole by the beast behind my teeth. 
show me your teeth
dont touch me
quit being mean
why do you assume i have an issue with being fat?
I'll tell you, on my down days, I was pretty f*****g sad, no doubt. 
But on my up days, I would be on the f*****g moon.
So far gone no-one could even see me.
I felt free and untethered. My hands letting go of all insecurities that run rampant.
My mania used to be the opposite of what it is now
Before, I was mostly sad with extreme, farse, happiness.
Now, I feel finally, truly, honestly happy with every things but my sadness is unbearably hateful. 
My brain shouts and screams in a thousand different voices. 
I cannot hear over them.
I am happy with my weight but I punish myself for eating more than twice a day, "You'll lose more", and "You can finally see your collar bones, isn't that what you wanted? You're doing so well!!" I convince myself that the food sliding down my throat tastes like cardboard that way when I throw it all up I'm not disappointed. Not even the munchies can't get me to eat more than 6 goldfish for the day.
When I was "Fat" I would convince myself cutting was juvenile, immature, and not for me any more.
I threw out all my razors and was finished with it.
A few days ago, I watched myself in a mirror, seamlessly melt, as my hands innately grab a broken pocket knife and carved into my skin, a checkerboard of fine velvet. 
Like thats what my hands were for. 
My fabric board oozed flowers and died as I told my boyfriend of my vice. 
He told said he wanted to cry and that I mean so much to him. 
Yesterday, we made plans to do pure L and trip on the nostalgia of my childhood.
He asked if I had eaten. I told him yes without skipping the beat that my heart did. He believed me and it stayed on my conscious to the point of self-hatred.  I hold his hands like thats what hands are made for. I clench my fist and strike my face like thats what my hands were made for. I haven't cut in four years but the release of physical pain leaves me with proof that my internal pain is valid. 
Thats not what my hands were meant for. My hands are for cupping my boyfriends face, for petting animals, for art, for music, for pulling river water to my lips, for taking for taking in the features of whatever I can reach. These hands were not meant for such destruction.
My hands are meant to hold onto and to grow with.