A veces me salgo de mi cuerpo y observo todo. Me observo. Y me veo ahí. Aterrorizada. Sin poder moverme, con respiraciones entrecortadas. Sin poder hacer nada. Temblando. Chirriando los dientes. Y arrancandome cabellos uno a uno. Paralizada. Sin nada que decir. Con el cerebro a mil y el corazón a diez mil. Y en realidad nunca puedo encontrar la verdadera razón por la que explotó se esa manera. A veces solo pasa y no puedo controlarlo.

No soy yo. No sé lo que pienso o digo. No siento nada. Todo se escucha lejos. Y la vista se me nubla.

A veces creo que es miedo. Miedo a todo. Al mundo, a la gente, a mí. Es un miedo que me paraliza. Qué me congela. Un miedo que me persigue y que no me deja seguir adelante. Porque a pesar de que quiera cambiar y de que me aterre ser así por siempre, el miedo de en realidad hacerlo me gana.

Y así vivo. A veces lo ignoro. A veces no. Pero me da tanto miedo algo diferente, algo nuevo, que prefiero quedarme en dónde estoy por comodidad y no hacer nada. No moverme. Y el miedo gana. Y volvemos al mismo círculo vicioso de siempre.

Y si bien sé que no puedo quedarme así por siempre, cada día me miento un poquito a mí misma y me digo que si puedo. Qué puedo aguantar más.

Aunque sea una bomba que puede explotar en cualquier momento, no me importa. Me aterra lo desconocido y no tengo el coraje para avanzar.


Boy. It’s been a while. 

It’s been a while. But I’ve been feeling like everything it’s pretty pointless with this whole recovery thing. 

It’s been almost 3 years since it started. And most of the days it doesn’t feels any better and I can’t even see a real improvement on my moods or behaviors and thoughts. 

I don’t know if it’s because I’m really self-conscious and self critical or if it’s because #bpd but whatever.  Bulimia again. Ah. Yes. 

I was about 15 when I started purging on a daily basis. And I never felt bad about it. I didn’t over thought it too much. I just did it. And then realized the numb feeling after it. And I liked it. I liked the fake sense of control and peace. 

I wasn’t even a little bit conscious about the consequences and about the fact that I was setting up a very dangerous bomb time. And to be honest I never thought that at my 22 years I would be still on the same hole. 

I can’t remember what was I exactly thinking or what I was expecting from purging. I just know that it happened. And then I couldn’t stop. And I didn’t cared at all. 

7 years later and it’s all the same. (Mostly)

Still no self control. Still with distorted thoughts and ideas about food and my body and my image. Still getting “sick” after certain meals. Still locking  myself on the bathroom and letting the cold  water run for 15 minutes so no one can listen while I purge. Still not brushing my teeth so acid doesn’t ruins them. (More). Still with the same fear foods. And the same safe foods. And the endless grossery shopping lists. Still obsessed about calories. Still using a shit ton of perfume to keep the smell “away. Still chewing gum 24/7 in a desperate attempt to make the puke breath disappear. Still with graspy voice. Still knowing my memory the x numbers of x food. Still taking measures in a obssesive way. Still hiding it. Still feeling ashamed. 

Always with red knuckles and watered eyes. The same puffy face. The same fat body. The same loose and dry skin. 

Looking back in retrospective l lost everything but weight. (Like yeah. I went from 80 kilos to 60. And then up to 70. And then again to 80. And the back at 70. Which is my current) and somedays I feel like after getting to 60 I should have gone down to 40 to make it worth it. To feel like I finally did something not everyone can. You know? Like bragging about loosing 40 kilos in one year mister feel awesome. But I couldn’t. So I feel like I failed. (Which is stupid) 

Is stupid because I lost friends. And healthy relationships with everyone around me. I pushed a lot of people away. And I didn’t even cared at that moment cause I was too busy purging and binging and building a useless wall inside my mind. I lost so much time (have you ever thought about how much time you spend binging and purging? Well. I lost about +5 hours a day). I lost a lot of moments. And party’s. And dates. And concerts. I lost all my high school.  And then my only year of college. And then everything. 

I was willing to give everything to drop some fucking kilos. And it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth it. Cause in the end it’s not something you can’t brag about. 

You know? 

Like. If someone at a family dinner says “I’m so proud I finished my major with honorific mention” I can’t say. “YO that’s great. But I lost 40 kilos on a year. So suck me this one” 

You know? 

Losing weight shouldn’t be my only goal in life. And I need to stop measuring my life success with a number. 

(But I can’t) 

Size miserable 

It’s raining and I’ve been listening non stop to this amazing song of Angus and Julia Stone “all of me” that constantly reminds me so many things that make me cry.

I’ve had a serious hard week. Month. Benjamin has been sick twice. Which means no sleeping. No eating. Him on my arms like a baby koala all the time.

I’m exhausted. And when I’m exhausted I don’t take care of myself in any way. And that’s not good. Because that’s when the intrusive bad thoughts come back at 1000 KMS per hour.

This month I had to throw half of my food because it was already rotten because I didn’t even bothered in cooking or eating. And my mind has been fighting between seriously relapsing or continue with recovery. Somedays I wake up and it takes me 1-2 hours to make some breakfast. (That I hate. And I don’t even enjoy. And then I feel guilty. And then it ends in the toilet)

Whatsoever. I actually hold up to my shit pretty good. And on Friday I re-readed my recovery journal. Which is basically weird notes I made while I was at the ED group. And I made (once again) the conclusion that eating disorders have only one size.


There was this girl called Fernanda at my group that went from weighting 35 kilos to weight 80. From anorexia to binge eating to bulimia. All in less than 2 years. And she was always talking about the fact that the satisfaction of her goal weight literally lasted 1 day. 1 bloody day. And that was all. 35 kilos seemed like 90. And she wasn’t satisfied. Why?

Cause you’ll never be. You are never going to be satisfied with the number you see on the scale. Because the reality of an eating disorder is not weight.

Let me try to explain this.

The weight is the “symptom” of something bigger.

When you get the flu the first thing you probably get is a little bit of fever. But that’s not the disease. That’s a symptom.

Well the weight is not the illnes. Is a vile symptom.

The illness itself it’s undercovered.

You use the eating disorder to avoid everything. To avoid the fact that you don’t like your life, or your family, or the things around you, or that you don’t like yourself, your social position or other things. But it also can be because you couldn’t deal with difficult things that happened. Maybe you were bullied a lot, or you happen to be a victim of domestic violence, or rape, or child abuse.

It’s different for everyone. But the effect of an eating disorder are the same. Wherever you have anorexia and weight 35 kilos or have binge disorder and weight 80 kilos.

It numbs everything.

Because you focus on food and only food and numbers and calories and measures and sizes. So your brain goes 24/7 on that. And ignores everything else. And nothing else happens. Nothing else matters.

So you go everyday on this state (unconscious obviously) and things start to lose meaning and you don’t care about anything anymore you know?

Something bad happens? Restrict.

Something good happens? Restrict more.

You got into a fight with your family? Fast for 3 days.

You got a new job? Nope. Can’t deal. Don’t eat today.

You numb everything because honestly we don’t like feelings because no one ever teached us to deal with them (and yes. This is actually an issue that comes from our parents) but well. We never learnt. (So, no. It’s not 100% their fault)

Whatever. Feeling are bad. Feelings hurts. Being happy hurts. Being in love hurts. Being lonely hurts and everything hurts. So we better focus on this pretty little shit that takes everything away.

Oh yeah. Lets rely (even more) on our eating disorder.

So obviously when you get to the goal weight. Man. You still have to deal with all the things you’ve been trying to numb. So you push yourself a little more. And search desperately for more numbness. Because well, it’s fucking scary to face things.

So yeah. You’ll probably be satisfied for a day or for a week. But sooner or later. You’ll need more numbness. And you’ll keep relying on the eating disorder and not dealing with anything and it’s a never ending story. Because obviously on the surface the goal weight is not enough.

But deep deep inside. It’s not the weight what’s not enough. Deep inside there are a lot of things that are not enough. And deep deep inside everything in wrong. And you are only feeding that shitty monster inside you that instead of dealing with things decided that numbness was better.

Size miserable. Because you don’t have to reach your goal weight to fall into the hole of desperation property of the monster that demand numbness.


Bulimia Is often. (Very often) taken as the “easy” eating disoder. 

Anorexia is self control. Of the body and mind. Is having SO much “control” for fasting and denying yourself from food. 

And bulimia is left as the dissoder or those who don’t have a damn piece of self control in their bodies and mind. You know. Eat all you want and then purge cause well you are still going to lose weight aren’t you?

Well. No. 

Bulimia is a living hell. Just as anorexia. 

Both of the disorders lack any type of control. And the sense of it is absolutely fake. You are not in control. The disorder is . I used to go  through this stupid mind set where I told myself “only three more times and everything will be okay” so I only purged 3 more times. But nothing was okay. 

After purging I get a fake sense of relief. That doesn’t last much. And sometimes the guilt comes harder. But I keep telling and lying to myself that I would feel even worse with a full stomach. So that’s why I keep doing it. And after so so many years of living with bulimia I don’t even have to stick my fingers to my throat. Most of the times everything comes out with a weird twist I do with my stomach. And sometimes I don’t even have to do it. Food just comes back effortlessly. And it’s gross. Gross as fuck. God. The amount of times I’ve been on a bloody restaurant table with my mouth full of puke is simply gross. 

The smell after you purge is even worse. The smell stays there all the time. I swear. On your hair. Your fingers. Your nails. Your clothes. And it doesn’t matter how much deodorant you spray on the bathroom the bloody smell remains. 

And then there’s this even more sick thing I do. Which is basically eating/binging on the bathroom so I can save time and just purge. There are sometime where I’m still eating and purging. It’s like. One bite goes to my mouth. And then a splash of puke comes out. 

Gross no? 

Bulimia is gross. 

There’s nothing glamorous about it. 

So please. Don’t fucking ask me how to get “bulimia” or how I became one. Don’t ask me for tips on how to purge. Don’t fucking ask me for tips. 

Cause if you want this. You are honestly stupid. 

It tickles. 

I have this awful feeling inside me that it’s eating me alive and haunting me every day. It doesn’t lets me enjoy the sun in the morning or my coffee. It gets inside my mind whenever I am taking a shower or laughing and playing with B. 

It tickles. 

The feeling that I am doing everything wrong. That I am not doing absolutely anything to get better. To live better. To make a significant progress on “recovery”. You know how Instagram is full of recovery accounts with fit girls who eat colorfully and everything all the time and they are smiling and going to art therapy and shit. 

And I am here. Stuck. Fucking stuck. Eating the same thing for weeks and weeks and Stiller restricting and purging and relapsing on self harm and feeling ridiculously depressed and down. And with my body image and self love buried 1000 feet’s under. And it only makes me feel like I am obviously not “sick enough”. Not sick enough to deserve the help. Not sick enough. 

And not sick enough doesn’t goes away from my mind. And stays there all day. Whenever I am about to do a change for good. And lately I’ve been struggling so so much it’s unreal. And it’s impossible to give me credit for the good things I do. Cause it feels like I haven’t done anything good. Neither for myself or for changing my situation. 

And doctors recommend I should you know do something of excersice. But I have no energy or motivation to do it. I also don’t have any kind of fucking creativity. I seriously haven’t draw in forever. I can’t write like I used to. I can’t take photos like I used. 

I don’t know how to get better and I don’t know how to treat myself better cause this is the live I have know for so many years that I don’t know who I am without it. I don’t know and I don’t have the courage to descover it. 

Done. I said it. 


I don’t have it. 


I was bathing B when my father walked into the room and saw the cut I had on my leg. He immediately pointed at it and for the 100000 time in my life he gave me a look that was full of disappointment and sadness. We’ve been trought this a hundred times. It’s always the same. 

He says he understands, he’s there’s for me. He takes me to therapy. Buys my meds. And it’s “there” always available to talk. For him is not rational that I am not better yet. Even when I have all that and all the help in the world and a good med team. 

BUT FUCK. I am better. I am better than I was 18 months ago. Always high or drunk and fucking strangers and self harming “bad”. And restricting and  purging so  I much . I so much better compared to that. I’ve accomplished milestones in recovery. I stopped doing things I thought were impossible. And I’ve been feeling so much better. I have good days now. I sleep better. Still. One little thing for him makes all the good things nothing. And suddenly I am bad again. And not trying again. And not putting enough effort. For him relapse is NOT acceptable. Under any circumstances. 

And I tell a fucking thousand times that he simply will never understand it cause he had never felt the way l feel.  Nobody who had been trought this will fully understand. 

Yeah. They pretend they do. And they say things like “do yoga” lr “breathe” and they do everything to keep you “balanced” and “happy” and I appreciate it endlessly. But dude that’s not what I need at all. 

I need patient. Patient cause recovery isn’t going to happen overnight. Is a lifetime job. Every morning you have to wake up and choose not to go back to the same old bad things. And it’s not easy. Seriously. The choice you make when you wake up defines your whole day and probably the whole week or month. And that what most of our parents don’t fully understand. 

For them is just a matter of mind. 

Yeah maybe if i only had depression or bulimia. Maybe that could be possible. But I have BPD (and I’m NOT justifying MYSELF) but common . That’s something you live your whole life with. 

You don’t get to be cured and recovered and happy like the 6 last year’s never happened. No. You have to live with the consequences forever. And you have to deal with them and learn from them. 

And it’s so irrational that he wants me to be okay when I’ve been barely on it for a year and a half. It’s not magic. 

But he makes all the good things I do nothing just cause I had a small relapse. 

We probably need family therapy. Great

I till insist that he will never understand and he will never fully change his mind about the way my mind works. And it makes me sad. Cause he feels helpless and I feel worthless. 


Food. Food. Food.

Eating is a basic human need.

You eat to live. To survive. To be strong and healthy and functional.

People who don’t have an eating disorder eat without hesitating whether they should or shouldn’t. They enjoy it. They just see it as a very normal thing that is needed to survive. They don’t count calories or fat or read ingredients and compare them. They never hesitate whether they should eat another cookie or a second dish of something they really like. Nobody questions anything cause eating is normal. 2-3 times a day with 1-2 snacks. No special food. No special diets. No nothing. Eating is normal.

And it wasn’t until I started therapy’s that I realized my eating was very very very dissordered and distorted by the ideas I’ve had for a long time about food.

You know. This is bad. Too much calories. Too much fat. Too much sugar. NOT enough protein. Not enough fiber. Compared to this or that. This is better. Don’t eat carbs. Don’t eat bread. Don’t eat fats. Don’t eat sugars. Don’t eat cereal. Don’t eat cookies. Don’t eat chocolate. Don’t eat ice cream. Don’t eat fried things. Don’t eat regular food. Light is better. Zero calories is the best. Don’t eat high sugar fruits. Don’t eat potatoes. Don’t eat meat. Don’t eat eggs. Don’t eat chicken. Don’t eat mayo. Don’t eat pizza. Don’t drink cow milk. No. No. No. Nada. Bad. Bad.

Eat organic products. Eat whole grain bread and rice and pasta. Eat light products. Only drink things with Splenda or svetia. Only calorie fruits and veggies. Use coconut oil. Good. Only eat at home. Only things you cook. Only able to eat at home. It’s healthier. It’s better. Yeah. Better.

Somedays I break down in the Kitchen cause I can’t let myself eat anything I have. Or I stop myself before tasting something cause I know I won’t be able to stop. Most of the times I eat standing up. Or I eat one bite and do something else to distract so in that way I can finish a meal in like an hour and by that time it will be cold. So I won’t eat it. I do have this terrible terrible habit of adding more salt than what it’s needed. So obviously i can’t eat it.

When it’s the time of doing my shopping list I obviously spend 2 hours at the supermarket and it takes me an eternity everytime (just to buy the same thing) and of course it’s more expensive (not that I care). But the point is. That it distracts me. It distracts me from everything and that’s why I keep doing it.

And it’s so frustrated how the fuck everything envolves around food. Like going out with friends is going for a coffee or a nice place to eat. Going out at night means having dinner. Going out in the morning means breakfast. Food is everywhere. Food is social.

Food is a bloody little bitch. That stays in my head 24/7. I haven’t even go to bed and I am already thinking about what l can eat and cannot eat the next day. At what time. How I am going to prepare it. The portion. Everything.

So I prepare my meals. That are only for me. And sometimes I don’t even eat them. They rot in the fridge and then I throw them away. Or other times I just give them away to my cousin or nieces.

I eat alone. All the time. So no one questions anything. So no one tells me anything or criticize anything. It’s better. Yeah. Better.

The truth is that a normal person doesn’t thinks in all this. They just simply fucking eat and keep going with their day.

But I can’t.