I've made a huge mistake.

I've struggled with my weight for years. I've been very underweight and very overweight. I've been hospitalized more times than I can count because my eating habits spiralled out of control. It started slowly. For example, right after I was released from the hospital after my rape, my mom offered to make me any meal I wanted. (It was a Tuesday and my jaw was no longer wired shut so I could actually eat.) I asked her to make lasagna and garlic bread. She dropped me off at home, helped my dad carry me up the stairs, made sure I was comfortable, and went to the store. I was still on pain meds and fell asleep. By the time I woke up, the whole apartment smelled amazing. My mom brought a plate in for me and I ate way too much. Later that night, the combination of too much food plus painkillers had me throwing up for well over an hour. I was sweating, shaking, sick, and exhausted. I fell asleep curled up against the tub and I suppose my mom and dad dragged me back into my room. The next day I woke up and I still felt sick. My mom offered me food, which I refused. The next day the same thing happened. And the day after that, and the day after. I remember thinking how easy it was to just not have to eat, how light I felt, how the light headedness beat the hell out of the flashbacks I'd been having. The first meal I ate after the lasagna fiasco was that Sunday and it was baked chicken and cucumber salad. I felt like I swallowed a rock after I ate but assumed it was because of the days without eating. I continued eating pretty normally for a the next week until I was allowed back in school, with assistance since I still needed the wheelchair at that point. I was really nervous because I'd missed the end of the previous school year and a few weeks of the beginning of the next. (I was raped the end of April, was released from the hospital October 5th, and allowed back at school a week and a half later.) Jada, the nurse the hospital connected me with, had pushed me to my locker when she just kind of froze. I had been waving at a friend of mine when I turned and looked at the locker. Jada tried to turn me around, but no quite fast enough. Someone had written "Rape Whore" across my locker. I kinda went numb for a second, before asking her to wheel me into the bathroom. (I needed about 18 months worth of rehab therapybefore I could use my left hand again. The thumb is still really sensitive, and I had to learn how to write with my right hand over again, so at that point I needed help with almost everything.) Once in the bathroom, I had probably the biggest anxiety attack I'd ever had. My hands went numb, my vision blurred, I couldn't catch my breath, my heart was racing. I honestly thought I was going to die. I spent about twenty minutes calming down before Jada sent my friend Kelly to get my books from my locker so I wouldn't have to go back there. I figured if I avoided my locker, I'd be okay. The entire day, people pointed at me, whispered to one another, and a few made comments directly to my face. I had been raped, but I was the bad guy because his "reputation" was ruined. I should have known to avoid the cafeteria, but I was stupid. Jada pushed me to the cafeteria, sat me down at a table, and went up to get me something from the lunch line. This girl Daria came up to me while I was waiting for Jada to come back with food. She proceeded to call me a a liar and said it was probably consensual and I lied because I felt guilty for being such a whore. (At this point in my life, I can pretty much just say she's a fucking moron. I mean, I was in a freaking wheelchair and I consented? Idiot. But back then, I wasn't prepared for any of it.) A little group had formed, as it so commonly does during confrontations in high school, and everyone was staring at me to see what I'd say. Including people I had thought were my friends. I was fighting back tears so I couldn't say anything. Jada came back - thankfully - a few moments later and savedme from having to say anything. Sticking to traditional high school crap, the group left when an adult was present. I couldn't eat anything I was so upset and I asked to go to the nurse to go home. The nurse, loving understanding woman that she was, not only excused me from school, but called my doctor, got a fax excusing me for the rest of the week, and drive me home on her lunch break so Jada could go home early. That night, I didn't eat dinner. When my mom asked if I was hungry, I said no. When she asked if I had a big lunch, I lied and said yes. I still don't know why I lied. It just seemed easier than explaining that the thought of food made my stomach hurt. Over the next few weeks, things got worse. More stuff popped up on my locker, my moms car was keyed, a rock was thrown though out kitchen window, people crank called my phone so often I unplugged my phone, and I started geting death threats on my moms phone. It got so bad, we stayed with my great aunt in a few towns over for a few weeks. I got an electric wheelchair during that time so Jada wasn't needed anymore. The school sent a letter saying that I'd have to repeat a year if I didn't come back soon, so we moved to a new apartment. I had to go back to school alone though. It didn't get better. I was so anxious in the mornings, I couldn't eat breakfast. I'd get to school, and the comments would start. My friends would tell off anyone they saw or heard saying anything to me, but they couldn't be with me constantly. The teachers tried to control it as well, but they were only human. I avoided the lunchroom, hung out in the library a lot, and just basically tried to keep to myself. I'd go home, relieved the day was over, dreading the next day, and just being exhausted. Some days I'd have rehab, others I'd just get to go home and try to do homework or practice drawing with my right hand. (I loved art. I was good at it as well, even took some professional classes. But I was left handed and the bones were shattered and a nerve was damaged beyond repair so I had to learn to do things with my right.) Most days, I'd be too tired or stressed to eat more than a few bitefuls if anything. Slowly, that became a game to me. How many bites did I take per night? How many pieces could I cut that piece of steak into? How many times do I chew? How many days can I go without eating? I eventually realized that I felt better if I didn't eat. I felt clean, light. I felt good. It even helped in school. I'd focus so hard on ignoring the hunger pangs, I wouldn't even hear the comments. It escalated from ignoring the hunger pangs, to trying to keep my vision from blurring, to trying to keep from passing out. The nurse noticed something was wrong though and called my mom. My friend Kellys dad drove me home from school one day after my mom called and asked him to. I got home and my mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a huge plate of food, everything I liked. My mom informed me the nurse called and wanted to "express her concerns" over my eating habits. My mom sat there and watched as I ate every bite. As soon as she left the room, I burst into tears. I had an anxiety attack and felt like I was going to die. All I kept thinking was 73 bites of food, I just had 73 bites of food. I had to get it out of me so I forced myself to throw up. I repeated this process everyday for two months, before I passed out in class and was rushed to the hospital. I was incredibly malnourished and dehydrated. I was put on a potassium drip, which if you've never had, feels like the equivalent to a billion ravors slicing you open from the inside out. I spent two weeks in the hospital. I got a lot better at hiding my eating disorders, but it almost always comes out. Over the next five years, I had eleven hospitalizations, been banned from four gyms for passing out, had three forced feeding tubes, and spent a summer at a specialized eating disorder clinic. When I was 18, my relationship with my ex ended and I started taking care of myself a bit more. I still struggled with it, and I still do, but I've been in my own unofficial recovery for a little over two years now. I struggle everyday with eating, but I've discovered my triggers. Going back to my old town is a huge one. I can't go back there alone. I've done it twice in the past two years and both times, I nearly fell off the Sanity Truck. If I go too long without eating, I start to wonder how much longer I can go. If I find myself thinking too much about food when I'm unhappy, I have to stop myself. If I see a womans ribs in a picture, I have to close the magazine or site because I start wanting to be thin enough to count my ribs through my shirt. I constantly have to be on the lookout for signs of my disorder, and so does my mother, father, and Dom. All of them watch out for me as well and Dom has actually wrestled the keyboard out of my hands when I started obsessing over a models body. So I know most of my triggers and I should have known better than to do what I did last night. I couldn't sleep so I started looking up random things online. During one of my searches, I found a pro-anorexia site. Right then, I should have closed the window. Instead, I clicked on the link. Big. Fucking. Mistake. Pretty soon, I was comparing myself to the people posting on the boards and finding myself wondering if the tricks they used would really work. Two hours had gone by and I didn't realize it. And now, it's 8 in the morning, I haven't slept, my heart is pounding, and I'm thinking about the General Tsao's chicken I had last night. I was planning on going back on the low carb thing today, but I'm not sure if that's such a good idea. Dom is asleep otherwise I'd be talking to him trying to calm down. I'm so fucking stupid. I should have closed the damn window, and instead, I go and make things a billion times harder for myself. Fucking idiot.