On Friday night, or rather early Saturday morning, he came over. He sat across from me in my dining room and spouted some ridiculous garbage about my headstrong attitude. I'm not feminine enough, I'm not submissive enough, and I'm not right for him. Yes, I know. Yes, I've known for quite some time. I did break up with you. I know clearly why.
He stood up and I stood up; he grabbed my arm and shoved me to the floor. He pressed himself against me, and I couldn't breathe. He stopped, then he did it again, again, and again. I would forgive him all of it, if it was out of love. But it was all out of hate, and I truly hate him back. He left me there on the floor, looked down and said, "I will see you later." Walked out the door. And I cried.
My roommate came home and we booked a ticket to Chicago. I escaped into the arms of the skyscrapers. I melted into the streets, and the city was alive. It whispered to me all night, and I danced, and I loved it.
I came home on Monday night and panicked. I hate this place. I hate he lives next door, I hate that I have a final, I hate that I've neglected my life.
So, I've been MIA. I know. I have not been restricting. I have not been exercising. Probably back up in my weight. I haven't checked as I'm too scared too.
But I am restricting again from today. The past three days have been terrible. I've binged. I felt sick. I still feel sick. I feel sick with the stench of him, the stench of food, the stench of myself. Fuck.
To be continued...