I guess all stories start with an origin. I'm not even sure how I got here anymore. Obesity, starvation, bingeing, purging, bones, vomit -- some bizarre quest I recognize as such, but that I still can't escape...and frankly don't want to. Maybe that's what makes me different or messed up, that I genuinely want to be ill, enjoy it even.

It started at 19, mostly out of loathing for extra weight gain and college. I remember those years fondly, even though most of them were spent binge-drinking and not eating. It was novel at first, that first foray into starvation. I felt high all the time, colors seemed brighter, I felt in control. Clean.

Years go by, significant others change, a boy who loves me as is, faults and all, regardless of my weight. Sincerely regardless of my weight. I finally lapse into a place of not caring about numbers for a couple of years, only to find myself back in the same place. A place I can't control anymore. A place of depressive binges, manic highs, diet pills, and failure. A failure I can't get an edge on, because my friend, my self-control, is long gone.

I don't pretend to know what's going to happen this time around, but I desperately hope the end result is satisfaction and control. I want to be unspeakable things: thin, frail, fragile, ethereal. Loved. I want to be loved and safe again. This is the only way I know how to go about it.