Last night, P and I went out for drinks with a crew of rowdy friends to a bar where we notoriously drink too much. After purging any substantial food I ate (except a small bowl of oatmeal and a pack of peanut butter crackers), I let my anxiety and exhaustion get the best of me. P and I got into a big fight which has been the norm lately. We went out, having settled nothing with my stomach growling and 2 shots already coursing through me. I think we can all speculate how this ended.
I don't remember most of the ride home, but I remember the feeling of thinking this break up is for real...we really are over this time. I hate what I put this wonderful man through and I constantly feel guilty and resentful at myself and my eating disorder. We go around in circles, with me apologizing for everything, assuming I'm always doing something wrong, and finally apologizing for apologizing. It becomes increasingly true what they say, I cannot fully love someone who tries so hard to make me happy and make things work until I can love myself. I hope that happens sometime very soon because I fear the fighting and the tears and my inability to trust when P promises, over and over, he does want to be with me, regardless of my problems, is doing irreversible damage.
This morning I wake up with bruises and scrapes, mementos of my drunkenness and pain. I wake up with a gnawing hangover and the urge to binge and purge and make the hurt go away. I know none of this will do me any good, but I know I'll spend the rest of this beautiful Sunday fighting the already embedded urge. P and I resolve our fight and seem to be in a much better place than last night, but I'm still so damn disappointed with myself, my stubbornness, and my inability to maintain a functional relationship without bringing my partner down with me.
It's all or nothing with me right now and I'm afraid I'm teetering on a very dangerous, very narrow edge, close to giving up.
No comments:
Post a Comment