I need to remember

That it was real.

That good things do happen.

That I deserve to be happy as much as everyone else.

That it was real.

Dream a little dream

Hey you,

Dreamed of you last night. It's happened before, but this was more vivid. We didn't just kiss.

The worst (best?) thing is that it's not outside the realm of possibility.

You do treat me slightly different to other people.

We do occasionally overstep personal boundaries.

I did kiss you once, friendly, and you liked it.

You put up with my weird attempts at conversation.

You seem to want me around, at least some of the time.

You do talk quite a lot about being single. On Saturday you were even bemoaning that you're basically the only one in our group of friends who is. It was pointed out that I'm the other obvious one. As someone said, "there's a simple solution to that." Unfortunately, I was too busy trying to make sure my reaction wasn't incriminating to notice what your reaction was.

This is my problem. I've spent so so very long learning how to hide feelings, that I'm not sure I know how to show them. And I don't know if I should. Because, when I do, people get hurt.

Because in all likelihood I still wouldn't be what you want. What you deserve.

No matter how much you want someone, I can't expect you to be so desperate that you'd settle for me.

I'm a penny in a diamond mine.

Fuck, I want you though.

A penny can have dreams.

Lying Bastards

So the scales claim I gained five pounds this week.

If it were one or two, I'd be freaking out, but that much? I'm sure (well, 85% sure) that can't have happened.

It hasn't been a perfect week, but the desire not to eat has been pretty dominant. Even if I slipped up on a couple of days and ate more than I meant, there's no way I did it to the tune of 3500 x 5.

So fuck that.

It hasn't been a particularly good week emotionally either, but we can deal with that. Or rather, we can ignore that and pray that it goes away. Hilariously, I actually made an (admittedly pretty pitiful) effort to reach out to someone last weekend. I didn't actually tell them anything, because I they were obviously busy and knee-deep in other people's problems already, and I still haven't entirely shaken the feeling that they only put up with speaking to me because they're too nice. But, I think, if I ever found the courage or the right moment, I think I could tell them. If not everything, then a lot of it.

Until then, I remain a lying bastard.

Limbo

It could go either way.

I'm sitting high on a week of successful restriction. Old habits are like old friends, once you have them back you remember how good it feels to have them. But I'm more aware now too. I know I can't push myself too far. I'm not playing How Low Can I Go. There's no point running myself into the ground. I'm in the middle of a fucking degree here, I need my brain to work for me, I need the energy to concentrate on my academic work, else I risk failing at the one thing I've ever been good at. I also have sufficient of a social life that I can't risk going too hard and being noticed. If I start blacking out from blood sugar lows when I'm with friends, well, it's just not a situation I want to encounter. When all's said and done, I don't actually feel the need to starve myself into submission. It's enough to have control. It's enough to be able to set my own limits.

Fuck, it feels good.

I've been waiting for the inevitable moment when I screw up, when I push too low and enter a dangerous head space, or when I slip up and shoot too high and undo all my progress. It could go either way. A week is usually how long I can manage being good before I fail somehow. But it doesn't have to be that way. I can sit here happily in limbo. It's not completely healthy, I know, to do what I'm doing, but if it keeps me sane, if it keeps me in control, then it's the lesser of many evils. If I start getting good losses then I'll quite happily ease off a little, even. This week just proved I still had it in me. I'd been beginning to think it was all some freakish dream, all that strength of will I had before. I'd been beginning to think I was still my high weight, deep down, and the slightly-less-fat view in the mirror was just an illusion, another facet of my body dysmorphia. But I got up the guts to get back on the scales last weekend, and - miracle of miracles - apparently I'm the same weight as I was in January. I don't know how the fuck I managed that, given the disgusting way I've been eating and the complete lack of consistent exercise, but I'm too relieved to dare questioning it. Granted, it's still a good 20lb above my lowest weight. I'd like to knock off two stone, at least, but that's okay. It's a goal. I can work with goals. One of the reasons why everything went to shit last summer was that I met my goal. I met it and it didn't solve a fucking thing. It was a hard fact to face up to, which is why I haven't for so long. Even in my success I still managed to feel like a failure. And isn't that the fucking story of my life.