on the way back from a band trip over the weekend, i confided in z. me and him have talked about relationship stuff before, but never anything as deep as what i told him. i don't even know how we got on the subject, but it started with telling him how self concious i am. then how guilty i get over food. then that i used to be a really bad bulimic.
he was simply a concerned friend. a good friend. he didn't want to rat me out. he asked me if i still struggled with it and i told him yes. yesterday, i admitted to him that i threw up my grandma's homemade gooey buttercake. "i couldn't handle it," i said. "was the buttercake fully digested?" he asked. "no."
and i felt confident in telling z. he asked if i ate anything healthy to replenish myself, and i lied and said yes. (i had a couple sips of broccoli soup before trashing the rest, so it's not a total lie...) he made sure i was drinking water, offered to write me a workout routine, which he handed me today. a general workout, a core/chest workout, and a legs/arms workout. complete with his personal tips (which included, of course "eat 3 meals a day"), an inspirational quote, and a personal message from himself, advising me not to hurt myself and to come to him with any questions or concerns.
it's nice knowing he cares about me. it's nice to know that he won't tell my gf. it's nice to know that someone actually cares that i'm slowly destroying myself.
but it kills me to imagine the look on his face when all that is left of me is a brittle, beautiful shell.
stay strong, think thin, live ana