As I'm kneeling on the bathroom floor with my head over the toilet, hoping that this won't be the time one of my flat-mates finds out about my eating habits, the over-familiar feeling of failure rushes over me and threatens to make me gag much more effectively than the toothbrush I'm sticking down my throat.
Why am I here again? What happened to bring me to this point - again? Why couldn't I stop myself? Where did my determination and self-control go? Where did my resolve not to let this happen again run off to? Why do I even think this is a remotely good idea?
I can't stay there forever. At some point my body runs out of energy to carrying on throwing up, despite my desperate attempts to make sure that every last bit of food is gone - beyond the chance of giving me even a few extra calories. Once again I'm cleaning up, brushing my teeth, avoiding meeting my own eyes in the mirror - too ashamed of what I've just done to face even myself.
Facing myself is exactly what I have to do right now. Again I have to look at myself, admit that I hate myself and hate what I'm doing - and admit that I have to start again from the beginning.
Another all too familiar feeling rushes over me - the feeling you get on Day Zero. The first day of a long, up-hill struggle. The first day of a battle with no forseeable end that you know in your gut will likely come crashing in on you 1, 2, maybe 10 days later, bringing you right back to Day Zero and starting again - again.
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