..and getting away from the boy and the family. Albeit it only for a fortnight. I am very willing to be going as it feels like I'm finally handling the responsibility of my increasingly poor health and behaviour on to someone else.
I am mental! I have alcohol and razors hidden round the flat for when you're in bed. I spend the night throwing up hot cross buns because my desperate quest for skinnyness is coupled with an obsession with food and the need to eat. Under my funky fashionable bangles and braclets there are scars upon scars upon cigarette burns. I didn't really fall and bang my head, I spent the night banging my head purposley (sp?) purposefully against the wall to avoid thinking.
Everyone has accepted and in agreement with the fact I need to go into rehab, and they probably know about 40% of the above. Crumbs!
Big buttery crumb remnants around the kitchen as evidence of yet another drunken binge.
Oh Georgie, no wonder your legs touch at the top and you're getting a tummy and boobs. You silly silly fat fuck.
Does anyone know how you put one of those trigger warning things on your blog? Just realised I probably swear quite a lot and it might offend people.
As I keep saying to my boyfriend when he tries to row, I fight enough with the people in my head and my dirty far body to bother with aggro with anyone else.
He sat and silently cried at that, great times.
Mad, sad, bad times more like.
I'm wondering how they'll handle my eating at the clinic. Everyone is given prepared plates tailored for their problems. When I went on Friday they were having salmon and pesto spaghetti. I pointed out that there is now way on God's wacky world I would consume that and contemplate not vomiting but everyone just laughed.
And I'm hoping I'll have internet access so I can write on here. Keep a record of what everyone else's shit is! I hope there's a sex addict. A female, wouldn't want to listen to a man harping on about his promiscuity.
Bye for now xx
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