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Trigger Warning
T R I G G E R W A R N I N G.
The combination of seemingly benign letters that sends a small jolt of anorexic anxiety through every pore, every blood vessel, every cell that forms the tattered vehicle of transportation I call my body. The engine roars. The gas pedal is engaged. The gears shift into drive.
While I am the sort of person to follow the warnings, this is one caution sign that I can’t help but ignore. I have this desperate need to see the information that may cause my progress, my recovery, to be lost in a sea of hazy hungry days. Progress that has been hard to achieve.
So yes. I am anorexic.
I am sick.
But when I see a trigger warning, a mixture of curiosity and a hope that maybe this time I will not be burned by the flames behind the warning compel me to be reckless. I crave to be strong enough but I am not. Yet by the time I accept my weakness, the damage has been done and I am left smoldering in the wreckage of my foolishness.
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