Saturday, April 6, 2013

speaking of apology and confession

It's really kind of hilarious how easy it is to fool my parents. Oh yes mum, please buy me fruits. I've already eaten. I'm not hungry. Don't mind me just getting a second serving. Can I have some more eggs, bread, rice, cheese, peanut butter, soup, calories, calories, food food food? I'm totally better, totally fine. I love eating. Gonna go exercise. Can I have some money to go grocery shopping? I want to bake cakes.

But here is the trick: I am going to let the fruits rot and spit out the bread and throw away the eggs and I didn't really eat and I gave the cat my dinner. I'm not practicing yoga, not really. I'm locking the door to my room because I cannot be interrupted, not right now. I am stretching. I am exercising. I am studying. These moments are crucial. I need to be surrounded by four walls and alone with a reflective piece of hell, I need to see what exactly I am. I am my fingers making a closed circle around my upper arm, I am my rib cage and collarbone, I am the brave vertebrae that push out of my skin, I am hips and tendon, I am numbers. Despite what my birth certificate and online profiles claim, my real name is pronounced in inches and pounds. 

Darling father, I cried when you ordered pizza and asked me if I wanted to do more modeling jobs because I'm so anchored down by my flesh. It's pulling me underwater, despite the fact that fat is supposed to float. These tears are salty because they are bits of ocean spilling out of me. If I was a mermaid and my vocal cords worked even when submerged I would tell you that I am not better. That things are worse. That my face and bones hurt because I am angry all the time with them. Your darling little angel got sick because she wanted to be gorgeous for prom and then she got better and then she got worse. The end of this story is that she will die, not that she will be cured. She gained weight and lost control and she, I mean I, will trade her mind in bits and pieces in order to get back a firm grip on something anything oh no oh please.

Better is not fatter. Better is not a place or a smile or a goal weight. Better is not a healthy range. Better is impossible. All I've gotten out of recovery is extra flesh and people commenting on how much 'healthier I look'. This makes me want to set myself on fire. Once you see it, it being the truth about food, there is really no way to go back. Sweet, salty, sour, spicy and regret.

(But do you know what the worst part is? The icing on the cake and the cherry on top and the salt in my wounds is that I don't look sick anymore so I can't be sick anymore. What right do I have to complain about fat and to think about food and to cry when I eat so goddamn much? The answer is none, no, not at all. I should just shut my mouth and get back in control and stop whining like a little shit.)

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