I’m done. I am so, so tired of this illness, and I am done.
As I write this I know that in the next minute, hour, day, I will change my mind. I will want to cling onto it and hide underneath it. But that’s not me thinking those things, it’s anorexia, desperately trying to shrink me down to a shell of not only my body, but my very being. It is a parasite, wanting to overtake me completely until I am nothing but walking eating disorder.
So I write this in one if the transient moments in which my mind is my own, to reflect on when recovery feels too much, too painful, too impossible.
I hate this.
I hate how I can’t concentrate on things I used to enjoy. I hate how the sound of my favourite music now irritates me. I hate that I don’t find comedy funny and that sad films don’t touch me the way they used to because I feel numb. I hate that being out with my friends doesn’t make me happy and that all I can think about when someone is hugging me is whether they think I am soft and fat. I hate that I used to love my nightly bath and how they used to relax me, but now my spine hurts pressing against the hard plastic and I can’t stand the sight of my body. I hate that every time I lose weight I think I will feel happy, but that no matter how much it’s not enough. I hate that my feet are covered in plasters to protect the blisters from my shoes, multiplying with every extra kilometre I walk. I hate that I am so, so tired, but that I can’t rest until I have met my step target, the goal posts of which are constantly moving beyond comprehension. I hate that my favourite outfits hang off my body. I hate that I am always cold despite being shrouded in too big pyjamas, dressing gowns, blankets. I hate that it’s almost my best friends wedding and all I can think about it how I am going to exercise whilst being a bridesmaid all day, and if I will look fat in my dress. I hate that I am addicted to wasting hours mindlessly pinning thousands of Pinterest recipes that I will never cook, and that I have to watch cooking videos as soon as I wake up and last thing before I sleep. I hate that my sleep is never proper sleep, and that I wake up panicking after dreams of binging on all the foods I can’t even bring myself to think about in the day. I hate that I look at my reflection in every mirror, every window, every surface I can, and that I look different every time. I hate that my camera roll is full of photos of my body at a thousand different angles, and that I spend hours poring over these, dissecting every part of myself until I can’t take it anymore. I hate how I start and end every day with overwhelming anxiety, so severe that I feel on the verge of being sick. I hate how selfish I have become, and how the hurt I am causing people around me is secondary to the desires of anorexia. I hate how I am in a constant silent competition with everybody, and that the first thought I have when I walk into a room is whether I am the thinnest, yet never recognising that I am. I hate how every time I shout that I want to get better, it shouts louder that I don’t. I hate how every morning I wake up to a miserable existence, and how every night I go to bed with a little less hope that I will recover than I had the day before.
I hate. I hate. I hate.
I am not living right now, I am merely existing. I get joy from nothing bar the few seconds after seeing my weight drop, after which the goalposts immediately move and anorexia is unsatisfied yet again.
I may need to read this over and over again before it sticks, but if that’s what I need to do then I will do it. This post is for me, but it’s also for every person reading who hovers on the verge of a relapse, who is ambivalent about recovery, who feels anorexia beckoning them.
The root of anorexia for many is thought to be about control, but I don’t think that over the 17 years it’s come and gone that I’ve ever been less in control of it. It infiltrates my every waking minute and doesn’t even rest when I am asleep.
I am so over this. I am done. Recovery isn’t optional, it has to happen.
I am done.