hunger is a vicious animal

Hunger gnaws at my lower back, right above my hips. It aches in my chest. It crawls down my arms until I can't feel my fingers.

It fights me until I am miserable, but if I make it, if I don't break, suddenly it's gone. Suddenly I don't feel anything.

And that's when I fee free.

...

Today I weighed in at 117.8 lbs. Yesterday I was 118.6 lbs. The day before that I was 119.8 lbs.

I can tell I'm losing too fast, too suddenly. I feel like a wooden marionette that someone else is propelling forward.

...

I've been biking lately. I've never been good at riding a bike, but I'm determined to learn. I found an amazing deal on Craigslist for a road bike older than I am. And I am in love. The Mr. loves biking. He refinished his old road bike and made it look beautiful. He bikes every day and has the sexy legs to prove it.

Biking is a lot harder than walking on an inclined treadmill.

Especially on an empty stomach.

The Mr. flies on his bike, he can tackle hills like their not a big deal. Most of the time, I'm fighting to keep up. To make it up those hills. But I grit my teeth and keep going.

Today we spent almost three hours out riding our bikes. We went to the library. I was running on one cup of coffee. By the time we made it to the library, I was shaking. Every time I stood up, the room swam. I had to cling to the shelf to keep from falling over.

But I didn't say anything. I just gritted my teeth and kept going.

When you teeter on that edge of exhaustion and hunger and weakness, and you come out victorious, that high feels pretty damn good.

...

I keep almost telling the Mr. things. Almost. We'll be laying together or in the car or walking somewhere and the words are there, on the tip of my tongue.

I think about killing myself almost every day. 

There's something wrong with me. I don't know how to eat like a normal person. I don't know how to stop. 

I think I need help.

But I don't. 

Because I can't help but pour over every possible outcome. I tell him I'm suicidal. He freaks out. Understandably. He thinks it's his fault. He worries about me every time he's not with me. He thinks he has to take care of me, watch me. He thinks it's his responsibility to keep me from hurting myself.

He insists I get help.

I tell him about my eating disorder relapse. He freaks out. He blames himself for not noticing. For not doing anything about the things he did notice. He thinks it's his fault. He worries about me all the time. He starts drilling me about what I've eaten. He thinks it's his responsibility to make sure I eat.

He insists I get help.

Talking ends with getting help. And knowing that keeps my mouth sealed shut.