This post is not going to be pretty..

The above piece of evidence is a picture of my bed at approximately 6pm on Saturday the 28th of June 2014. Let me set the scene for you...
Mid-week, my boyfriend came home with the news that we had been invited out for dinner with a few of his work friends. After which, we would nip down to the local pub for a few beverages with his work team as a sort of celebration for doing something kinda big. That's as much detail as I managed to recall as I stopped caring after the words, 'free bar' were mentioned. People seemed excited about it so it must have been a pretty big deal. 
Like the organised female that I am, I had already planned my outfit, which consisted of a jeans and blazer combo with my fabulous, new, chunky sandals... Sorted, only I planned my outfit on a wet and rainy day and come the actual day of outfit wearing, the sun was burning a hole in my perfectly planned ensemble. I needed an outfit change. Cue me frantically throwing on every item of clothing that I owned in a desperate attempt to determine what I should possibly wear! It's safe to say that it didn't go very well.
I spent a whole one hour and forty five minutes tumbling down the rabbit hole of irrational psychosis. I'd started this thing a sane and functional human being, but I had been reduced to a shell of a person by denim and chiffon. I'm pretty sure that my boyfriend was frightened. I don't blame him. Over the course of said outfit change, I had kicked my beloved shoes across my bedroom floor and declared that I was in fact, never going to eat ever again, before puffing my belly out to represent the pregnant version of myself and then falling in a heap of tears. Understandably, Scott was wary on how to approach the situation and after a few tentative words, resorted to bringing me alcohol in the hope that a few gulps of the good stuff would restore my sanity and his belief that I was actually the girl he will someday call his wife. 
Even writing this makes my entire body cringe. Why is it that getting dressed... something I learnt to do when I was four years old, reduces me to a shadow of my actual self? It's really very ridiculous and it embarrasses me to admit that this isn't even a one off. It happens scarily too often. I can barely even bring myself to write that in the end I wore the same outfit that I had originally planned; minus the jacket. 
Why did I have to go around the houses, develop a weight problem, refuse to leave my apartment and destroy my lovely, tidy bedroom in this relatively simple process? If anyone has a number I can call, it would be much appreciated.