Recovery is shit. I never wanted this, I just wanted to be thin. Thin and beautiful. Smart, thin, beautiful. The price didn’t seem to be pain and agony when I started dieting. It was a simple diet…like any other. But it became really serious really quick. I cut down to 500 calories per day, then 300, 200, and so on. Eventually I was having around 100 calories over the course of 2 days; unless I binged and purged, which happened quite often actually. I still have my days, and I still hate myself immensely, but I’m getting there. I still think about counting calories and weigh myself twice a day. I still want to throw up when I eat a normal amount of food, I still feel like shit whenever I go over the calorie count I anticipated for the day (2000, always) and I still do all of these things. I still keep a food diary. I still think of thousands of things I could be doing right now to lose weight. I still use my tumblr to post the triggering things that go through my head everyday, because I would rather post them then do them. I still want to kill myself, but I know I won’t, because now I have goals and things to live for. I have set them for myself. I still count calories every single day, but at least I’ll be counting them until the day I die at 80 rather than the day I die at 18.

My brother found me lying on the floor in pain (my stomach is killing me and I feel nauseated) and he just looks at me and goes, “Have you had breakfast?”

"Uhhh no."

"Did you have dinner last night?"

"Of course I did!"

"Liar I saw you throw it out. Want to split a cinnamon roll with me?"

"Nope I am just fine, thanks."

And then he left and I resumed my self-hating pity party and he comes back and sets an English muffin beside my head and goes, “Here eat this, and if you don’t I’ll just make another one so basically Kyla you have no choice.”

… Apparently my 12 year old brother is now my nutritionist.