For the last year, I've eaten what I pleased and been able to fight off the voices. I've said "fuck you", to ever thought of worthlessness and self hate. I've eaten when I've felt huge, I've cried when things hurt instead of exercised. I've let someone close enough to fall in love again. I've done big girl things, and gone out with friends. I've been... "normal".
But here I am, sitting in our bed drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes, wondering exactly how many calories were in that bite of Thai food yesterday.
Relapses are common, I know. After ten years of this bullshit, I know. I've fought it off for so long, but I'm just so tired. So mentally and physically drained from pretending everything is okay, and that I'm not crazy. Talking to myself before eating, trying to convince that part of me that I need nutrition and that I don't need to look up the calories, sugar or fat. I'm tired of seeing my fat in the mirror, and telling myself that I'm beautiful anyway - not believing a word of it. Tired of being told by family and friends that I'm finally at a "healthy" weight.
I beg to ask the question, what the fuck is a healthy weight? In Europe, it sure as hell isn't what it is in the US. In Africa and Afghanistan, it sure as hell isn't the weight in the US. We're fat. We're all so bloody fat. Our standards are sinking, and so is our health (not that I'm starving for health's sake).
None of my clothes fit. I've gone up three sizes in one year. I am at the highest weight I've ever been in my entire life. I've never been this fat. I've never been average. I've always been used in examples of being small, pretty, and put together. I need that back. I need the catcalls, the compliments, the creepers. I feel so alone and worthless without them, as petty as it is. I don't know who I am without that attention. Without people asking if I've eaten, if I've lost more weight, if I'm okay.
I'm not okay.
Not at all.
Not a moment goes by now that I don't have to breathe through another moment of disgust or panic. My clothes are too tight, but I can't buy more because I have a panic attack as soon as I have to choose a size off the rack. So here I am, sitting in a bathrobe completely naked, nervous to get dressed. Nervous to go to work, where people will be eating and I won't. Nervous of being found out again, and having my whole world ripped out from under me.
I'm so tired of living in a society where we have to be okay, all the Goddamn time. We have to smile, we have to laugh, we have to eat, we have to dress nicely, we have to be professional... I just want to hide again. I want to curl up in my own bed, and stay there. I want to feel safe in my bubble of starvation. If I'm hungry, I'm in control.
I'm going back to school.
I'm moving in with my boyfriend.
Christmas and family get-togethers are coming up fast.
I'm constantly busy between work and maintaining a household of 4 men.
I'm always in pain with my neck and back, thanks to the abuse I endured in my previous relationships.
I'm tired.
I'm so, very tired.
So I'll tell myself that this is just temporary, that I'm not really relapsing. That I'm just stressed, and my ways are not really coming back. That I can fight it off again. That I can keep pushing forward. But it's useless, I'm afraid.
I'm tired of fighting, and I'm tired of losing against this evil disease.
I give up.
Welcome back old friend.
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