they say love conquers all?

I have to stop f*****g around with this s**t. I love someone now and all of my actions have consequences that effect not only me, but the person I love. So if I decide to binge and purge numerous, consectutive times, therefor, be paralyzed and sick for the rest of the day, it hurts that person. It wastes a day that we could have spent together. And even when I decide to be on the right path, my immune system is still extrememly as a result of nearly seve years of a abuse. Sometimes, when I go without symptom use, my body just hates me and rebels. Every muscle will hurt. I won't be able to digest, let alone keep food down. Not by choice, but because my body just isn't used to being treated normally. Some days, I can't even eat a candy bar without my blood sugar plummiting. I'm not a 70 year old diabetic. I'm 19 years old. It's rediculous.

 

When I decide to binge and purge, I can't do it just one time. No, it has to become a day long, weekend long, week long affair. Because everytime is "my last time". It use to not bother me when I did it. I could care less if I dropped over dead, to be brutally honest. Same thing with when I was anorexic. Seeing 70 lbs. on the scale made me so smug and happy. And like I said, I could have cared less if I was going to die. Hell, I WAS GOING TO DIE.

There were several instances where I attempted suicide. One particular incident, the closest to "success", Februrary 14th, 2010. I swallowed a bottle of excedrine, and went to bed, drenched in sweat. I tried to get out of bed for some water, and collapsed, struggling to catch my breath. Then I woke up, back in my bed somehow, my stomach literally burning. I began projectile vomiting- that "coffee ground" vomit that they warn you about on the back of pharmecuiticals.... I was really weak for the next four days, and ended up doing permanent liver and kidney damage.

 

Until about oh, I'd say two months ago, I wish that the six instances in which I came in very close contact with death had rresulted in death. Because I thought that being dead would make me happier. Literally. Even though I was "successful". Even though I had all those credentials that everyone says they want. You know, the extra curriculars, the grade point average, the varsity letters.... they don't really want these though. They just want them to go on some damn resume for some damn college that'll teach them nothing but lessons to get grades that they'll soon forget about.

 

I'm not in school. I have a job I hate and don't even know how much longer that's going to last. My purse looks like a pharmacy itself, with all the bottles of pills in it. I was asked to give five compliments about myself, and I said, "I have crazy hair, drug like eyes, nice tits, a nice a*s, and pale skin". These were all misconstrued from, "You have beautiful, thick hair, georgous eyes, a nice body, and porecelain skin". Hell, that's the way I see it though. I'm kind of a mess. I have the word "fat" scared on my arm because I cut it in there back in August. I only have 3 semesters of college complete, and while I have a 4.0, I still feel very defeated regaurding the amount of education I have at this point. I still go out and party, but rarely get fucked up. I used to get fucked up t the point of passing out EVERY NIGHT, because I wished that I would have died on February 14th, or any of those other nights.

 

It's taken 6 hospitalizations, hundreds and thousands of dollars in medical bills, my pulse stopping a few time, some scars, some blood, and many broken bridges to get to where I am today. Which is still far from perfect. I actually do want to get better now though, not so I can dance, not so I can run, not so I can be in school, but so I can share my life with someone. Because on February 14th, 2012, I woke up next to the love of my life. And for probably the first time since all of this s**t, I was happy to be alive. I was happy I didn't die. And I realized that I wanted to continue living... continue living... living for something beyond myself. I'm happy that I'm still here. Inspite of it all, I really am. And I KNOW this isn't from all of the therapy, money, and medical scares... it's because I've found something that I love more than my self destruction, something that makes me want to take care of myself and hold on to find out what else is there for me. So I'm tired of wasting days to Bulimia, Anorexia, Depression, Bi-Polar, Hangovers, Withdrawals, whatever you have it. I don't want to waste any of it anymore. I just want to be with you.