Eating Disorder

It feels like I'm posting too much, more than is socially acceptable (but like i said, what is society anyway?), but I need to get this all done at once, because it hurts, and it's better to do something that hurts psychologically all at once rather than to draw it all out.
I HATE SALAD. I HATE CELERY. I HATE SPINACH. Well I went out to eat with all my relatives tonight... and I sat there chewing on my salad, my celery, my spinach, thinking that. Thinking, I haven't eaten something I like in a very long time. Mostly I eat celery and spinach and things I hate, just because I know they have zero calories. I'm so lost in this eating disorder. I just want to lose a little more weight, be under 100 pounds. Shauna told me this is stupid. I don't care. Shauna told me this is giving into society. I don't care. It is, ultimately, not giving in to something even worse than society, something deadening and numb.
I'm going to keep spewing about what other people say because that's where I get all my information about myself. That is something else I have just realized. Kayte says I have to stop overdosing on drugs to throw up. She said that I'm the only person in the world that's ever going to care about my body. I told her I don't. I don't care about my body one bit. In fact it would be marvelously convenient if I could get hit by a semi-truck tomorrow or get cancer. How selfish is that- that there are people dying of cancer who want only to live, and I want only to die. Well, selfish is my goal. That's what this painful psychoanalysis is about. Being selfish.
Anyway, I sat there tonight at dinner squashed between my parents and I needed to hurt myself so badly I could hardly breathe. I wanted to grab a fork and try to stab myself with it, but something told me that though my parents are dumb and blind, they'd probably notice me skewering myself at the restaurant table. But it began to occur to me... how can I live another day? How can I live my life like this? The only assurance was that because I've been so depressed, it's probably not going to last a lot longer before I rocket into mania and try to jump of the roof thinking I can fly again. (I always think I can fly).
I remember when I was 12 in seventh grade and I was so depressed for so long and wasn't eating and tried to kill myself and then one day I woke up and I thought I was the most brilliant person in the universe, and I started writing all these theories, covering sheet after sheet of paper with pointless math problems and circular logic. And I remember sitting in that stuffed-up office and having more labels to plaster over myself: bipolar, obsessive-compulsive, generalized anxiety disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, attention-deficit disorder, dissociative disorder. And I remember the plethora of pills that for so long I took dilligently even as I cut my arms and my legs with razorblades.
And I remember the first time, that first terrifying night when the anorexia became bulimia. I remember I ate a brownie, just one, and that was all I'd eaten all day but it was enough, and I took the bottle of lithium pills in my hand, and I started swallowing them and swallowing them. I threw up all night. I thought I was going to die. It felt like it. I couldn't leave the toilet. My head was spinning. My mouth was full of way too much spit.
And after that I knew I could eat brownies as long as I threw them up. How many days this year have I gone to school high on lithium? It makes you dizzy- horribly sick. I throw up all night and then the next day at school I'm so tired, so fatigued, I just want to sleep and sleep, and I can't focus, can't concentrate, and I get a rash on my skin, and I lose my coordination and run into everything, and my vision goes all blurry, and my hands won't work. How many days have I embarrassed myself at various music lessons with a mind as slow as mud and fingers that won't move fast enough?
I remember the first time I bought the laxatives, at Safeway. I stood before them on the shelf for a really long time, staring at the cough medicine and the advil, waiting for all the people to go away before I grabbed it and some shampoo and threw them in my basket. I never thought I'd be brave enough, to buy something so embarrassing. But I stood at the counter, and I threw them down on the register where everyone could see them, and I blushed furious shades of red but I stood there, and the lady just rang them up with my shampoo like they were flowers.
Thinking back, way back to when the eating disorder first started, I did it first for attention. In seventh grade I fainted at school, right after home ec in the hallway. I'd been starving myself for weeks and I'd finally achieved the result I needed. My mom had been hitting me a lot, and I kept trying to tell her I didn't like it but she wouldn't stop, and it was the first passive-agressive thing I did, I think, when I was just becoming a wallflower, a silent sufferer in the shadows. I wanted to show her that she was hurting me.
But after that it wasn't for attention. And I don't tell people about it now. I don't talk about it. The guilt that I am abusing drugs is hard to handle, consering I swore I'd never do this. But I've forgotten everything I believed when I was 11.
I want to understand why I need it so badly. I keep trying to stop overdosing and stuff, but I want and need so badly to be perfect, to be thin, and I'm so fat. All I see when I look in the mirror is fat. All I think about is food and how I'll binge or purge, or obsess about calories. I can't take my meds anymore because just thinking about taking them makes me sick, from all those nights, miserably long, spent in front of the toilet. It feels so out of control- it is so out of control. I don't want it. I want to stop but I can't.
And now I can't even imagine eating without getting it out of me somehow.
I think it's partly for control, yes, partly for perfectionism, because I need so badly to be perfect. In fact the perfectionism is so bad that I find it hard to make myself do the things I used to love for the simple fact that I know that no matter how good I do, I'll never have done good enough for myself. I want so badly to be perfect... I need it, but I can't be, and I'm not, and for that reason I hate myself. I hate myself for being human and flawed and carnal and fat.