𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 was raised from the ground up knowing nothing but comparison and perfection.
She compared herself to her successful parents, supermodel sister, and glamorous friends. Instead of love, she harbored a raging jealousy for nea...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
S i m o n e
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Extra TW: Mentions of self-harm and other coping mechanisms, if this is triggering (which is might be) skip to Nicolas's POV at the end
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I was nauseous, but I was also a bit proud.
I ate the soup and a bit more of the salad without immediately plotting ways to purge or work it all off.
I did eventually plan to work out extra today, and maybe take a laxative since I waited too long to purge properly, but I ultimately decided against it.
I couldn't get better if I countered all my progression with backward steps.
A fucked up part of me was also excited to recover so I could relapse and feel the initial thrill of getting smaller again.
My first time relapsing felt like a reward after months of being good for so long. It was like a release.
Not to completely ruin the depiction but it was better than having your first orgasm.
It was everything and more, I felt so proud.
Until the fog cleared and I realized what I had done, what that meant, and what I'd had to continue doing to become as sick as I was before; and more so.
It was a temporary fix but nothing else compared.
I tried other coping mechanisms, other strategies to help my mind reset and to feel that familiar high again that I got when I was hunched over my bathroom trashcan on my 18th birthday; chewing and spitting a cake I had custom-made to celebrate the end of my recovery.
The taste was amazing and knowing I wouldn't be forced to keep the calories down was even better.
I tried working out but even that was nothing if I wasn't actively restricting too.
