I feel like I'm getting better.

What a medical contradiction. When I say 'better', I do not mean recovery. Oh no no, I mean I feel like I'm getting better at this, at Ana. I've been away for far too long, she needs to grab me back and fill my veins with her strength, wrap her vines around my too-big thighs and squeeze until there's barely any of me left.

I started watching 'The Karen Carpenter Story' earlier today, but for some reason I couldn't make it past the first ten minutes; I got really shaky, couldn't breathe properly and my heart sped up. From a fucking movie.

I turned it off.

My stomach's going to rumble, you know when you can feel it? I don't want food, I don't need food. And for the first time in far too long, I know I'm not even lying. Thinking about food doesn't make me want to run into the kitchen and gorge myself on everything in sight. It holds no appeal for me.

Fuck it.

I've been awake about two and a half hours. I'm going to have a cup of tea with one sugar (16), and then nothing. Tomorrow, I will have one (16), maybe two (32), and then nothing.

Except oh shit, I'm at town tomorrow night. Alcohol. Shit. There are calories in alcohol. If I stick to three/four pints of cider and black, it'll keep the count just under 1000.

Badbadbaaaaaaaaad.

More reason not to eat though. I'll take as many of those opportunities as I can please.

Also, thankyou for the feedback to my last post about self harm, I feel bad but I'm going to try and keep my cutting from my boyfriend until I can't actually avoid telling him. I just don't want to lose him.