at least when I was starving

At least when I was starving myself, I understood what it was that I was after. I wanted to be smaller. To be nothing. I wanted to be concave to the point of collapse. I was hurting desperately, but I knew exactly what it felt like to be in my body–even though I’d made it unfamiliar. I was cold. I was empty. I was bone on bone grinding.

It’s a sickness to search for certainty like that–in one’s own body before all else. But doing so–starving oneself to be smaller–is accepted because thinness is desirable. Still this is the case.

This makes me want to rip my fucking hair out.

But. At least when I was starving myself, I wasn’t angry at the men who didn’t mind. You see, now, will a full stomach and a year of recovery–I have to address the image in my mind, played back and back again, of a boy looking at my emaciated, underdeveloped body and saying “you’re perfect.” I was 18 years old. A freshman in college. And was barely staying upright.

It wasn’t his fault. Though I’m sitting here seething at these words, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that I assumed he meant my ribs. My collarbone. That I decided then that starving myself so as not to feel, actually made me beautiful too. That it gave me everything.

It wasn’t his fault that I hadn’t eaten that day, and wouldn’t the next. It was confirmation bias.

At least when I was starving myself, I didn’t think about possibilities. I had none, and so I sat still and certain with my glass of ice water and blue, bloodless toes.

Now, I feel the desperate fucking weight of wanting a life. I want so badly to be a writer. I want it so fucking badly–it is the only future that doesn’t make me want to croak right here, right now.

However. In order to pay rent, I’m going to have to give my life to something else–I know this.

This knowledge is breaking my heart.

When I was starving myself, I couldn’t feel confusion or anger or desire or loss or panic. I couldn’t fear the future when I was starving, and that was perhaps its greatest benefit.

It was so nice, I thought–to hear things like “you’re perfect” from some guy in some basement of some cold, unforgiving house. To have exactly four thoughts and to hold them all in the palm of my hand, ready to show everyone.

I am thin

I am agreeable

I will die young

No, I don’t mind

But when I was starving myself, dear reader, I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t look at my family and cry, or blush just thinking about someone’s eyes.

I have more thoughts now, dear reader, and thank fucking Christ for that. I don’t think that guy would say “you’re perfect” if he saw me naked today. But, sweet reader, isn’t it just so fantastic that he never, ever will?

I’ll figure out a way to get a life I don’t mind sticking around for.

Of that I am almost entirely certain.

Take care my strong, intelligent reader.

I adore you.