I hate the weekends.

The following includes disordered thoughts and while I try to keep it safe to others, please don’t read if you are easily triggered. Stay safe ❤

That’s pretty sad, coming from a college student with sophomoritis and beautiful springtime surrounding her.

My hatred isn’t about spending time with my family or the procrastination that tends to take place. I hate them because it means a lack of control over food situations. I don’t have much choice but to eat each and ever meal because my family’s always around. The only thing worse than having to eat is the chance of them discovering my relapse if I don’t. So, reluctantly, I eat (and sneak to fake meals and cut corners at every chance).

Today was especially terrible and I will be paying for it with immeasurable guilt for who knows how long. I made the mistake of heading to the farmers’ market with my dad just before lunchtime. Of course, my mom had to inform him we should get something to eat. And where, of all places, did he chose? Not Subway or even Firehouse Subs like I was hoping, but freaking Popeye’s (imagine me flipping out internally while also trying to show him how A-okay I was with this decision). I ate it. I didn’t die, but boy did I want to in that moment.

To a “normal” person, fast food once in a while is no big deal. Not to me. I’ve planned more exercise and less calories for the next X days. I’m punishing myself for indulging. I’m vowing not to go anywhere with my parents at mealtimes again.

I hate this situation. I cant deal with the spontaneity of any kind surrounding foods. I like my predictable schedule I’ve made for myself. I get that me hating weekends and the change they bring to my norm is bad, disordered, unhealthy. I’m just not in a place where I can change it yet. Right now I need to continue my consumption of food I’ve set for myself, even if it is restrictive, because the alternative of super-restriction after 1 unplanned meal is much worse.


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