Or Sunday Roast, courtesy of Mum.
Uggghhhhhh. I feel awful.
I downed a bottle of wine to get through the mammoth meal, and I hate the way she points out how thin I am, when inside I'm screaming that I'M NOT I'M NOT I'M NOT.
I've gained weight again, I'm sure of it. I want the scales, but I can't weigh myself until the morning. I was standing in Topshop yesterday, trying on some ridiculously flamboyant high waisted shimmery gold trousers, size 6, eyeing myself up in the unforgiving changing room mirrors. They weren't hanging off my hipbones. I wanted to cry. I drank two bottles of wine yesterday night, and didn't eat today until the meal this evening.
I'm working on my Shrink to refer me to Mind or another organisation, to see if I can get a free membership to the gym or swimming pool. If I'm doing more exercise, then I'll be more likely to eat little and often. I might even manage breakfast, lunch and dinner for more than two days in a row! My eating habits are ridiculous at the moment, I go from consuming stupid quantities at my Mum's or Boyfriend's house to appear "okay", then I'll starve for a day or so, then it's back to 400 calories of low fat yogurt and cereal, occasionally throwing in some soup or vegetable chilli. Oh, and my drinking is definitely increasing, even though a pint of cider gets me bladdered. The two bottles of wine had a serious effect on Saturday.
It sickens me that the 26 inch jeans I was so proud of squeezing into are now hanging off me, where they once clung in all the right places. I can grab handfuls of material round the bum, and they are so baggy around my calves. I'm dreading my next work placement because nothing is going to fit.