What's the point?

What's the point in writing this blog?
What's the point in anything?

 I'm bored, lonely and sad. And a broken f*ing record.

I go from obsessing over my relationships, to obsessing over my ED...now i'm doing both and it's suffocating. I only have the mental energy to talk about certain things and to certain people.

I want some fun in my life, something to look forward to but i don't know how to make that happen. Nothing seems enough anymore, very few experiences give me any pleasure apart from going out and getting drunk, or losing weight. And the latter never seems to happen cuz all i do is fucking stuff my fat arse face with food every night and then cry all day afterwards.
(me talking to myself) What a fucking joker - like seriously who do you think you are shoving all this crap into your mouth? no wonder you're growing more and more covered in flesh, face ballooning like a prize pig. I actually fucking hate you. Piece of shit. No words can begin to describe the hatred i have for you and the flesh and fat you have covering yourself. Quit moaning like a sissy bitch and control yourself. You look like a saggy whore with your fat tits sticking out and curvy bum. Arggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm scared of my own thoughts lately, i feel so hopeless about everything. Feel like i'm slowly giving up on life now. I want to be happy, i want to feel loved, cared for and cherished. Someone other than family members to love me unconditionally.

Trauma work has started, i guess this is making shit worse too but has to be done. I'm finally realising where this eating disorder came from and the fact that I can't go back in time and change it makes everything seem even more hopeless.
Next session i have to go through all the details of the attack, something which i have not done with anyone in full - i have been through segments and bits of it with a few trusted people, but no-one in full. In my mind i split it up into 4 sections:
The prelude - The 4 hours before it happened
The attack itself.
The journey home afterwards.
and, The mental abuse in the following month.

I have been so so desperate to get it out and off my chest, in totality - like its this filthy festering secret inside of me that i need to tell someone just so i can hear the words 'Its okay, it wasn't your fault'. But i'm too terrified of exposing myself like that and the fear of judgement...or worse...what if someone says 'well actually you could have done more to stop it' 'you should have done this/that/the other'.
There's so much shame and disgust surrounding it.

I feel too sick and distracted to write anymore.