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Relapse

Between December and June, I lost between 6 and 20 pounds, depending on the scale, the time of day, how much salt I had eaten the day before.
I counted every calorie, sometimes twice,
I cried when my boyfriend pours the remainder of the bag of cereal into my perfectly weighed 57 grams bowl. Everything was messed up now.
Two weeks ago, I went out with my best friend and had 5 of her of her french fries, and just now remembered that I didn’t count it, and instead of feeling nothing, I feel a lot of things. I don’t remember the date of the day that we went out but I can remember that I didn’t add 159 calories to my daily total.
I started taking laxatives again, until shit poured from my asshole like piss, but that disgusted me less than the fat around my stomach.
I don’t even remember what it was like to not count calories before. My quiet rebellion is not counting the cream in my coffee most days, and I feel guilt over it.
But I start eating, and I can’t stop. I just eat until it is gone, telling myself that I am hungry for it. Hungry for the taste of wild abandon, even though I count eat link on this chain, but also hungry for the guilt. I can’t do this right either, I can’t do anything right. I knew I was a piece of shit. Other women only eat vegetables and chicken breasts, you sack of shit. Other women only eat 1,200 calories a day, you just ate 2,000, you sack of shit.
I look at myself each day, a mandatory glance, jumping quickly over my stomach and thighs and arms. As if avoidance will make them disappear.

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