Current mood:

worried

I just got home from work- only to have to go back at 5 and work a dinner shift. An old man at one of my tables winked at me... in a creepy way. I'm so tired of being hit. By everyone, customers, friends, co-workers... I don't want to be looked at. I don't want any attention.

This morning I weighed 109 pounds (of course, 5 of those are breast implants) so, sans tits I weigh 104 pounds. I need to lose at least 5 more pounds. I can't believe I'm doing this shit again. I plan on blaming my job for future weight loss. The 4 pounds I already lost aren't noticable. The only people who give me shit is my middle sister (who is moving back to NY next month and won't even see me); my dad, who will be busy with his mail-order bride from hell and their new baby; and my mom. My mom will be tough to fool. But then again who is she to talk when she weighs less than 100 pounds and does starve herself (a habit she learned from watching me). Her, I can deal with. But since she clings to me so much. And now it's getting worse because my sister is moving, so my mom is calling me and my sisters constantly. My mom's life revolves around her daughters and I have to go home once a week (between a full time job and school), she always tries to bring it up. "Are you eating Little Face? You aren't starving yourself are you? Why do you do that? It hurts me when you do that. Do you do it to hurt your mother?" Then she blames herself. When it has nothing to do with anyone. Sometimes she turns on the waterworks. My mother, master of the guilt trip. I think growing up sheltered in an upper/middle class roman catholic family may have had a hand. But mainly it's control. I don't know how to be an adult. I grew up with maids to clean for me, parents to pay for anything/everything I wanted, and everyone else making my decisions for me. I am/was a spolied little brat, selfish and ungrateful. That was then. Now, I share a tiny one bedroom, I work and pay for my own shit, and make my own decisions. It's terrifying. I feel like I have no control over what happens around me, and no real identity, so I control what I eat. And the ultimate form of that control is to not eat anything.

I know it's bad. I know I'm hurting myself, and those who love me. I know that it causes me to receed into my own little world and push everyone else out of it. I know that I'm miserable when things go too far, like when I hit 90 pounds a few months ago. And I know that the rehabilitation hospitals are expensive, even for outpatient. But I also know that 109 pounds is too much. And I know that I won't be happy unless I get below 100 pounds again. I don't want to go as low as 90... maybe 95. I know I will probably regret this later. But right now this is what I want. I'm trying not to think about it. I do eat, once a day, something small. And I always feel guilty afterwards. Sometimes I want to cry. I didn't think I would go back to all this so soon. I figured it would be at least a year or two, if I even relapsed at all. 4 pounds down, 6 to go.

I have to go back to work. I miss my fireman.