Coping Mechanisms? What's that?

So today, something happened that flipped me out. That something being my ex sending one of her lackeys to get a hold of me. Now, bare in mind, when I say "psycho", I don't mean it in the "Oh, she's a little emotionally disturbed" kind of way. I mean it in the, "She should really, really be in an asylum" sort of way. Like...she has these guys who are obsessed with her and she's married to one, convinced them all to sleep with each other, write in blood on the walls, and is convinced she's actually an alien, sort of way.
Like...in the, I'm afraid she's going to find this blog and I'm afraid to even TALK about her or say her name out loud because I have this feeling she'll KNOW and pop out of my god damn bowl of cheerios and kill me, sort of way.

So hearing from her boy toys is about as much fun as receiving a rectal exam from a first year med student with hands the size of Goliath's who mistakes the rubbing alcohol for the lubricant. In fact, I would rather submit myself to that large and incompetent oaf with hands of latex and ethanol than have to recall that she even EXISTS.
But no. No. They message me.
And I'm filled with the uncanny desire to gouge out my own eyes, and then dip my laptop in bleach to purify it of her fucking STANK.

Why can't they just leave me alone?

So I went to the gym.

And I did three miles on the treadclimber. And then I ran. Four miles. And then weights. And I realized, after hours of hardcore movement and after having done three miles of running, puked, and gotten back on to finish my last mile...that maybe, MAYBE, my response was borderline...I don't know....unhealthy?
I think it hit me about the time that I started to dry heave the second time, and collapsed to the floor after trying to stand up.

Running 4 miles at a steady pace of 5.8 mph, with only a pause to vomit, after a nice long treadclimber workout, followed by weights...tends to do that, I imagine.

I was so dizzy it was hard to drive home.

But
I lost two pounds.
121.8. Awesome.
Then I ate a piece of bread with peanutbutter, and a little bit of cake my dad shoved on me ("You look PALE," he says, "Is your blood sugar low?" Nope, my blood sugar is fine. If by fine, you mean completely crashing with having only eaten a hot pocket and a finger swipe of icing before pushing harder and farther than I EVER have during a workout, then yup, my blood sugar is PEACHES), and then I proceeded to get a terrible stomach ache.

And then I had to go buy girl products from the store in my pajamas. Because I was an idiot, and didn't wash my hands at the gym before going to the bathroom. And I'm standing there, looking at the different products, with a box of Monistat 1 in my hand, and this fucking GUY is looking at me, and he's some stupid little teenage high school punk butt stupid head, with this stupid snicker on his ugly face. And I have no idea what he wanted, but I was so GRUMPY MCFUCKFACE from the extreme workout, my ex, and then that satan cake, and having to come to the store in my pajamas to buy EMBARRASSING GIRL PRODUCTS that I was just...done? And I pointed the box at him and said, "I will fucking shank you in your trachea with a box of vag cream, you bitch!" HE STOPPED SNICKERING.

Oh, to traumatize the youth. But it's only fair that he realizes that all women have their sweet and lovey and perhaps matronly side, but it's balanced out with a midol filled, tampon, and icky-girl-part cream possessing rage monster that will light you on fire just because you're BREATHING wrong.

awoefijawoeifjawioefj



I think I need to a nap.
And maybe a shot of jagger or something.

Ugh, ♥
AT LEAST I DID NOT EAT RIGHT?

God I'm fiesty today XD

Though I got worried. At the gym, after working myself that hard, I didn't feel like I could stop.

I mean...I couldn't. I couldn't stop. I had to beg my friend to tell me to stop. To MAKE ME stop. Because I wasn't going to. And it hit me that while some people binge and purge...I think I just exercise. I think that's my thing. I do it when I eat until I'm ready to collapse, and I make myself sick constantly. I wore myself down to the point of emotional exhaustion, and came so close to begging one of my friends for help, because I didn't want to do this anymore. It's the first time I've felt like I needed help with this whole ED thing.
I guess it's the first time I've ever wanted to stop and couldn't. Usually, I'm grateful when I push. But today...I wanted to stop, and I couldn't make myself. It was like I was possessed. Like I couldn't control my body.

Weird that, isn't it?
I'm glad I didn't ask for help. I got over that feeling pretty damn quick. I think what freaked me out was after I had thrown up, I kept coughing and shit, and I couldn't breathe, and I only stopped running because my hands and feet were numb and I was close to passing out.
And then when I had finished weights, my lips were purplish blue.
And I think it scared me.
But...I'm better now.

I think.
Huh.
Just have to find a way to fix it, I guess.
I mean, sometimes, I want help. I want to ask for help. I want to cry on someone's shoulder and have them make me better.
But I dont' want to ever get better.
I want better control. I want to be able to not have the urge to purge, and to restrict and not hate myself for it, and to be able to stop working out when I want to. I don't want to be normal. I'm better than normal now.
I just want to better than I am.
I want to pluck out my imperfections.

I don't want to get better completely. I just want to get better at what I'm doing.
There's...a distinction, I guess.