I woke up this morning feeling as if my insides were being twisted by a malevolent force. I could feel all the food I ate churning and bubbling, a caldron ready to explode. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, hating myself and food and anorexia and all of life.
I ate like a normal person on Sunday. Then I punished myself by taking a handful of laxatives that night. What goes in must come out, right?
I am getting so sick of this. The time wasted either sitting on the toilet or trying to count each and every calorie I consume. The time spent on the scale, silently begging it to not show a triple-digit weight. The time spent sick to my stomach and sick at heart because I have failed once again.
The unrelenting pursuit of thinness.
I will never be thin enough. I read about Marya Hornbacher and her lowest weight of 57. I ached with jealously. I will never be that thin. And that hurts. Then I wonder . . . How did she do it? Could I . . . Maybe I could learn how by reading her book.
I look at the innocuous white scale, its flickering numbers ready to bring me joy or despair like a desperate gambler at a roulette wheel. Round and round the numbers go and where they land nobody knows.
And where it lands is never the right place. I hate the number no matter what it is . . .
I want to pick it up and hurl it across the room until it smashes into a billion pieces.
I look at the tiny pink pills that I slyly, quickly swallow so David doesn't see me. Yet I know laxatives don't really rid your body of calories, but instead depletes you of fluids and gives the illusion of weight loss.
My mind circles desperately, the Ana voice telling to just stop eating. You are a pig. Fat pig. You would be better off dead than the way you are now.
FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT . . .
It never stops. I want to scream as loud as I can — Dear God, save me! Save me from all this. Take it away. I can do nothing on my own. Only You can deliver me from this ongoing nightmare.
And I fantasize about taking a sledgehammer and smashing it into the scale which has ruled my life for years.
Then I become afraid.
Who am I besides someone fighting anorexia nervosa? Who am I besides my weight? Who am I besides my body size?
My doctor asked me to think about those questions and come up with some answers this week.
I see nothing but blankness right now. My thoughts are too filled with little pink pills and a white scale. My thoughts are too filled with what more can I do to rid myself of more weight. I look up tips. Karen Carpenter took extra thyroid pills and used syrup of ipecac. Hmm...I have thyroid pills. Perhaps I should double the dose.
I draw back, afraid.
And my anger at anorexia grows.
I am so sick of this. When will I be free? When will I allow myself to be free?
For it is I who locks myself in the golden cage and throws away the key.
Back and forth ...
Dear God, please save me before . . . the possibilities are infinite.