Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the dreaded day of anorexics everywhere. I don't really know why I dread it anymore. Mostly it's just depressing and lonely to be the only one not eating. I don't think anyone will even pressure me to eat anymore. Thanksgiving 2006 I stepped on the scale that morning and reached my low weight, a BMI of 14. I don't really remember feeling happy, just a little scared knowing that I couldn't stop this. Everyone tried to offer me food and feed me from their plates. Thanksgiving the next year, after constant revolving hospital doors and a month of residential, I was at a healthy weight, and was stuck at it thanks to zyprexa, even though I was starving myself. I sat in front of an empty gleaming white plate as everyone passed food around me and pretended like I wasn't there.
I don't know what this year will be like. Lately my mom has been trying to force food on me again, and part of me is relieved. There was nothing more lonely and hurtful than starving with everyone acting like it was okay.
I was reading through my old journal from around the time of my low weight. It's hard to remember that unhappiness. I'm that unhappy now, I guess, but still desiring to lose more and more weight, like that will get me somewhere.
Being forced into the hospital, and I feel like a caged animal, clinging to my eating disorder. Anorexia, like cutting, is my voice, and I'm terrified of losing it, of being smothered in my own body. I scream my defectiveness in blood and bones, starvation and scars. It is me taking my body back.
84 pounds. Where is perfection? I agonize over the lettuce I ate for dinner. Where is perfection? Don't be silly. You were never after perfection to begin with, not really. This is destruction. Perfection is when you die. I don't want to die, I just want to turn off my mind, get rid of this body. Punish, deny, I don't know why I can't stop.
I don't want to die from this. What a waste it would be. And people would be so mistaken, they'd think I'd died to be beautiful. They'd be so wrong. If only they knew that we don't even believe we deserve beauty. No. What drives this disease is so much stronger and darker and desperate, and it infects your mind until it's all you want and all that eats you alive.
My mind is consumed by the critisizing voice of my disorder. I measure my worth by the numbers on the scale and the empty space that grows around my arms, between my pressed-together fingers and thighs, all where a body should be, where I've disappeared.
I'm tired of the sadness in people's eyes when they look at me, of my little sister's obsession that I will die. Of lying, hiding, shutting people out. I want to be able to concentrate on things that matter. I want hands that don't shake, a head that doesn't spin when I stand. To sit in a chair without the pain of piercing bones. To come back to the world of the living.