Are we having fun yet?

There are some days when I hate Ana. The days when every bone and joint in my body aches. The days when the stabbing pain in my stomach won't recede, when my throat scratches and my ears hurt. On these days I run a low grade fever, not enough to be considered sick, but enough to keep me miserable.

Your mother stops caring by the way. Well maybe not all mothers, but mine sure did. She tells you you're always sick, she thinks you're faking it for attention. But she says nothing when you refuse dinner. Not a damn word.

A 'healthy' person wouldn't understand. They'd ask why I don't just stop then. They think it's a conscious decision. It's not. There's no off switch. There is at the beginning, so let this be my one morally obligatory warning: this is not fun. Okay sometimes it is, and you do get a buzz when you watch the scale drop. But there's another side to it, and it fucking sucks. This is the side that sticks the finger down your throat when you binge; which never gets easy by the way. This side can force you to exercise all night on an unexpected high calorie day, or keep you in bed sobbing because of what a failure you are.

Are we having fun yet?

I'm going out shopping with one of my best friends and here is my dilemma:
1. My body fucking aches.
2. We're going out later than expected.
3. She might want to go for dinner.
Panic. It will be somewhere cheap. It will probably be calorie riddled. Kill me now.
And finally:
4. Her sister has battled anorexia for years and I am a fucking bitch to make her watch her friend do it too. Given, she doesn't know about me yet because I've become the master at hiding it. Eight years without being caught, have I mentioned that? What a horrible person I am.

If I eat we know this means I have a grueling four day fast ahead. Thursday to Sunday night. One meal, then Monday to Wednesday night another liquid fast.

This is what happens when you plateau.

Are we having fun yet?
Yes, yes we are, aren't we Angels?