scale lies (and not on the floor)

Really love the make-up.
Kind of a noir-babydoll-geisha mash-up.
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When my insomnia was really bad
(it still is but I'm all pilled up, which I need to wean myself off, but that's another story)
I used to get outta bed at 2:00/3:00 am - every single day - and look in the mirror
I had no energy
I couldn't work or read or even think
(no, going to bed early didn't work, I'd just wake up at 12pm)
and in the mirror I would see this tired, tired version of myself
eyes bloodshot
skin managing to be sallow, and deathly pale, and ashen, and crawling with spider veins,
and deep, dark,  knock-her-lights-out-shade-of-bruised pits gouged beneath my eyes
so, distressed by my own ugliness, I'd start to apply make-up
tweaking and dabbing and blotting on and off for four hours(!)
until it was time to 'get ready' (pssshhht) for class
it was the only thing I could manage
and I was trying to make myself look... like I wasn't exhausted...
like I could cope...
like I was a pretty girl, and
like I had had more than 3 hours of sleep every night for the previous 3 months
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now make-up reminds me of those days
I still like it, sort of, I don't know
It just makes me feel like I've got my mask on
ready to fake my way through another day
and that's not a very nice feeling

Well, all that aside, I think I'm giving up on this scale business. It's lying to me. That little fuck with its dial and its could touch to the soles of my feet. To my soul too: a clammy, numerical stroking and stoking of my anxieties. It says 60kgs. But I feel huge (because I am, but duh). And my clothes don't fit. Lying lil' fuck. I see what you're doing; juggling your numbers around all hocus-pocus-ey!

I think I'd rather focus on getting this goddamn diet right. Consistency. Consistency is the key to success.

Took half a sleeping pill last night: Fail. Woke up at 2am. Ate some oats (too many) at around 3am. Stupidly ate a piece of shortbread at about 10:30am and then, somewhat unsurprisingly, launched myself into a calculated and methodical binge. Thank goodness my actual desire to binge seems to be dwindling (thank the pope, no really, I mean, wow, this is a gift!). On top of that it was the worst purge I've ever, uh, made (hmmm grammar?). Yes, tmi, so sorry. Like I'm talking wretching, choking, food not coming out properly. It's so hard to get it right; the liquid to solid ratio when binging. Oh, our disgusting problems!

Anyway: I think my body image has just become more realistic (or more distorted, I'll never know) in that I see myself not as thinner-than-I-was but painfully-normal-and-thus-unacceptable. I mean 60kg on my height is atrociously boring and not aesthetically pleasing. I want my hips to be the widest part of my lower body. Duh, you may be thinking, aren't they anyway? No; their is gunge around/on my hips; they do not point outward into the sweet nowhere. I also have upper thigh gunge. Ugh, there's also the lower back, back-ass gunge, holy cow... lets not start. Ahah! Epiphany: boob weight. That's what I've last. Baaaaaaallllllls.

Goodness but there is a lot of bad language in this post. I do apologise.