READ THIS NOW.

alright so here's the deal. Went to the gym and worked out hard. Went in the sauna for a ridiculously unhealthy amount of time thinking you dumb bitch you deserve to suffer and had the intention of staying in there, sweating, until I thought I was dying. And I did. Got out the door before I passed out on the cold tile. Eventually calmed a spectator and made it to my car. Started hyperventilating while driving. Worst panic attack in the history of my life. Couldn't breathe, very blurry/starry vision. First my hands went numb (not ideal for driving) and soon my whole body. I eventually pulled over and tried to breathe/drifted in and out of consciousness for a few minutes. Eventually calmed down. Drove home with a vacant, frozen mind. In a panic I called J. and i told him. He knows about this stuff anyways. And of course, like every time it comes up, he just talks about how he doesn't know what he can personally do for me and how I need professional help. And like every time, I say I know, I just can't stop. I'm sorry. I'm scared. and we talk about it. And then the next day we don't talk about it. Normally we only talk about it when I'm coughing blood onto my hands or passing out on the ground. But this time he seems determined. He keeps pushing how, if I absolutely cannot tell my parents to get real help, at least to talk to some kind of adult. Unfortunately, due to my incredible trust issues, I do not have any of those. Except for his mom. I like her, and she cares about me like a normal mother. Not a psychotic mother or a drunk mother, but a nurturing, good-intentioned mother. So J is insisting that next time I come over, I talk with her. And I accepted that. I feel like it could be good...? I dunno. I think I like the idea of her talking to me. There is something about her that is warm and caring and makes me feel like I don't have to be ashamed.
And let me tell you, I am ashamed.
I told J that it would be really difficult for me to start such a conversation and he said "fine. then I'll just walk in the room and say 'mom, elle is a raging bulimic and needs help.' and then leave."
Raging bulimic? I was taken back by that a little. Is that really how he thinks of me. Is that what i really am? Goddamn truth, how I hate to face you.