Written Sep 29, 2008
It started with routine self-loathing. Time wasted gazing at the reflection created by the non-existent fun house mirror, picking out exactly what I could not stand about what I saw. Taking in the exact details of why I hated the (slight) excess of flesh around my waist, the (minimal) softness of my thigh, the extra (inch of) flesh I could manage to pinch on my arm.
Every day I would make an appointment to take off my clothes and stare in disgust at what I saw.
Then came the limitations.
I can’t eat too much of this type of food; it will go straight to my hips. I can’t drink too many of these types of cocktails; the empty calories will show up on my ass in a matter of days; a tangible reminder that I am a complete failure, that I have absolutely no control.
Since I sabotaged my diet this weekend, I might as well go all out. Calories vacuumed into my stomach by the hundreds, so fast that I don’t even taste what I am eating. I am a machine who’s only job is to process food. I am a zombie completely zoned out of reality. I am an addict in the sickening yet euphoric throes of a serotonin, casomorphin, tryptophan eight-ball high, and I am every bit as docile and useless as the next heroin junkie you might pass by on the street.
Then there is the crash. With the crash comes reality. With reality comes panic, guilt, rage, and disappointment.
As well as the need to reverse the damage I've just done before it’s too late.
Puking or using laxatives was never my thing. So I abstain.
I’ll eat just enough to keep myself from fainting every time I stand up. I’ll have my morning ration and exercise right after I’m done. I’ll run as though I were in fear for my life, only I won’t go anywhere at all, and I’ll have my evening ration while trying to ignore the cries my stomach makes while I attempt to sleep.
I’ll do this day after day after day until I see the scale go back to that magic number.
I have reached it; hallelujah. Everyone around me tells me how fantastic I look. I get glares of jealousy from other females whom are bigger than me. I am gawked at by every lustful young male I pass by on the street. I have girlfriends who gush about how much they “hate” how skinny I’ve become.
But now that I am back to that magic number, I realize that I am not getting the same thrill I once did.
So I make up a new magic number.
And so it goes…..
If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, or you are just worried about their disordered eating, please visit the following sites: