I need to not eat. I need to be able to starve myself into oblivion because I cannot bear the guilt and pain that eating causes me.
Oh, but I must eat, for I love it and it nourishes me; giving me the semblance of comfort and the feeling that everything will be all right.
Until it begins to fill me, making me expand outward, and I want to crumble. Food is a traitor. It never fails to entice me with its deceit.
I condemn traitors, throwing up every ounce of the poison that they inflict upon me until I am no longer full, it seems. But the feeling of being full lingers like a ghost for hours, taunting me, until I hear that familiar call of food again.
It is sorry, it promises not to hurt me again. It will tempt me only to take small bites. Tempt me to read or watch TV or surf the web, unaware as those bites become larger and larger, sticking to my insides, refusing to let go, piling up a mound of fat for me to agonize over the next day.
I keep every other emotion buried inside. It’s easy. But when it comes to food and eating, my emotions seem to spill over. I know that one day I will burst; that I will fall apart and be unable to put myself back together. I know this and yet every day I struggle to keep my poker face, refusing to allow the tears to fall. I am proud of myself. I have succeeded in showing little weakness, even to myself.
To everyone I am a b**** and it is obvious. They all think that I am joking so they laugh and move on or ignore it. They don’t see that I don’t mean to be, that it is the hunger and the pain making me lash out at them. They barely realize that I am not joking, that I am not playing around or making a joke. They won’t, until I do or say something awful and then- poof! There will go my friends.
Not that I am one for friends. Sure, I have them, who doesn’t? But we are not close. The one that I am close with has grown to hate me, I am sure, because I am awful. I know this and yet I cannot stop being awful. It gives me some sort of thrill, to hurt others the way that I hurt myself. If only I were stronger, I would be able to completely internalize the problem and not lash out at others. But I am not strong. The numbers on the scale are proof of that.
I am not strong, I am not skinny, I am not nice. I no longer know who I am and that scares me. People will say that I have the rest of my life to figure it out but, with this ED, who knows how long the rest of my life will be? And who knows how long I’ll actually care about finding myself or a way out. I’m scared. I’m angry. But I am slowly becoming indifferent. To everything.