  four years. i don't feel liberated, if anything, i feel worst. like i've handed my parents a collection of shit on a silver platter. but i'm better now. no more nights, no more crazy extremes, not much throwing up. ...but still sick. still small, stupid, still need help. and a part of me is thankful that i stepped out and asked for help. but a part of me questions the consequences. changes. strip everything and rock the comfortable and work at it even if means tearing it apart to start again? scary. is this the part i say, " hie, my name is racheal and i'm bullimic "? i guess so then. 
