The Lovely Part

 

Now and forever, I am internally engaged in a silent battle in my head over whether or not to lift the fork to my mouth, whether or not to taste guilt in its purest form, whether or not to disappoint or prevail. 

     It is a decision of the most severe origin.  My body begs to be fed, to be nourished, but Ana has this voice, this voice that is oh so sweet and tender and loving, that whispers lies into my heart as she strokes my hair with gentle hands.  Hands that have led me for years, cared for me when I was weak, held me when I was just a scared child crying myself to sleep. 

     She never leaves me.  She may want to see me dead, but at least she is present.  I have never encountered someone who is so totally present and concerned with only me. 

     But the daydream fades and soon, her soothing hands misplace their gentleness and turn punitive when I begin to make my way to the kitchen.

     This room is forbidden.  I am not allowed in here.  I should know better.

     Yet here I stand, searching the four walls that contain calories and fat and food, oh, such delicious food. 

 

     Stop that, Rosie.  Stay where you are.  The hunger will pass, darling. 

 

     That is what she always tells me, that the hunger will pass.  But she is a rotten liar. 

     Hunger is a swirling vortex in my stomach, a bottomless pit at my core.  The hunger never leaves.  It's like a second skin that I want so badly to shed, but without it, I would feel empty, alone, not myself. 

      I would feel different somehow, different in a way that would cause me to wonder how people without eating disorders manage to go through their lives consuming food on a daily basis, eating without guilt, eating because food is comforting and delicious and nourishing, and simply because it is something there body demands and they do not mind being slaves to their gluttonous needs. 

     How do they stand it?  Your stomach begins to stretch and expand in the most grotesque manner, spilling out over your jeans and following you as you walk, making each thump of your steps just a tiny bit louder.  How do they get through the day?

     I don't ponder the question long; I am too infatuated with the cupboards that stand with open doors to the left of me, beckoning me with hisses of trickery, like a serpent daring me to eat, even if only just one bit, the forbidden apple. 

     That's what life with an eating disorder is.  A series of forbidden things. 

     Things that are essential to life, until, after a while, you realize you were a fool to actually believe that people need food in order to survive. 

     The cupboard creaks as I realize my trembling hands are opening the doors, reaching in, almost mechanically, for something, anything. 

     My hands find many things, some of which I don't even like.  But I simply don't care; I relish only in the fact that I am eating, that I am being fed. 

     Fast forward thirty minutes, and I am still in the kitchen, standing motionless, silent, in the wake of my destruction as I begin to acknowledge the mess I have made. 

     I am such a disappointment. 

     Shame erupts in my soul and consumes me when I look down to see I am surrounded by discarded candy wrappers and leftover ice cream sticks and chocolate granola bar crumbs. 

     This is why it is better for me not to eat at all.  Because if I eat anything, I will eat everything.

     While my mind is in utter turmoil, my body is in absolute heaven.  I feel content, full, relieved. 

     There is no greater burden than the chore of starvation.

     And there is no aftermath eviler than feasting only to throw back the feast.

     Stumbling to the bathroom, I waste no time.  Almost instinctively, my fingers find the back of my throat, and I stifle a gag. 

 

     Stop that, Rosie.  You must finish what you started.

 

     And I do so.  Bile stings my throat, and I purge until my eyes sting and the base of my throat burns painfully.  I am finished.  I am empty, light, clean.

     But sadly, this is only the beginning, or the middle, maybe, or perhaps it is just some sort of twisted limbo in which I am trapped, because certainly this is not my life. 

     Surely this is a nightmare.

     Yes.  This is all a horrible dream.  I just need to wake up; everything will be better when I wake up.  I close my eyes.  I close them tightly and wait for this dream to evaporate, but no such thing happens, peace never comes. 

     That's the lovely part about dreams.  The part where you always wake up.

     Oh, Rosie.  Why do you lie to yourself, darling?