I have lived without thinking of my eating disorder for a while.
I have pushed it to the very depths of my mind, and I’m not quite sure why I have decided to pull it forth tonight. I have held it before me and stared into it’s crystal-y gaze and admire it’s endless depth. Because it isn’t just the disorder. The addiction. The lies and the fear and the manipulation. It is our thoughts becoming our words becoming our actions becoming our habits becoming our values becoming our destiny.
It is the sickness in the pit of my stomach that my destiny is the sickness in the pit of my stomach.
And my soul writhes in a thirsty pain, yearning for a drink of revival.
I am in constant awe of the crap that surrounds me. And I hate it. With a bitterness that I can not write down into words. With a resentment that I had no idea would ever be a part of my life.
I am angry at the world.
And the world is angry at me.
As my mother once said. Anger Angers Anger…so there becomes more and more and more of it.
And remembering that just reminds me that she is out there “trying to survive” with homies like “Dallas” and “Doc” and “Nate” and a lesbian couple or a Motel 6, who the fuck knows.
I feel very very lonely but only because I have isolated myself.
I try to step out into social situations and I hate it.
I hate being out.
This is more than a disorder. It is more than a few skipped meals. This is a constant beat down of shitty shit shit that I have not even attempted to change my attitude about. Truly.
Although the outside world, outside of this little box here, would never know at all.
I have been deemed the nicest and sweetest and most praised employee at work.
I am good at excellence.
Almost every true anorexic is.
Facebook thinks I’m addicted to Gandhi and pictures of dinosaur clouds.
My thoughts have totally controlled the life that I live.
What should I do about this?
Seriously. Tell me.
I wanna hear what you. Atleast 1 out of the 120 + that I know see this. Think.