It's a bit odd, but I don't want to be some emaciated corpse. I remember once-upon-a-time wanting that, because I thought it was beautiful. I thought it represented the ultimate power and control over oneself, and that was something I craved more than anything else. I wanted the ball back in my court. I wanted to be able to say I did it, all on my own, no thanks to my family or my friends or anyone at all, that it was just me - purely, simply me. I thought being emaciated and undernourished meant one had won out over the self, that it meant the ego had been defied and defeated.
I realize now, I'm just not that girl anymore. And I'm glad I'm not her, anymore. She was as unhappy as I am now, if not moreso. She loathed everything about herself, she was tormented by the mirror. Not to say I'm free of that, no, but at least now...
I can eat without feeling obligated to punish myself. I may still feel bad, too full, I may still purge, but it's more a matter of real necessity, it's more a choice. This may be disgusting to some of you, since that makes it sound like I'm 'choosing' this shit, this 'lifestyle', like I'm some pro-ana whore. I'm not. I was more pro before I even became actually sick. I was so fascinated by the idea of an eating disorder, I didn't see what was so wrong with wanting one. And then, bam! I'm throwing up nearly every little thing I eat. I'm punishing myself daily, nightly, crying myself to sleep, crying in my sleep, dreaming of food I won't let myself eat, punching and pounding myself for disobedience. That wasn't control. That was not self-empowerment. I was torturing myself on a scale that I didn't think was really possible, until it happened. Until it enveloped me in its madness and refused to let me go.
I suppose I've partially recovered myself from the hell I was living. I don't hug a toilet bowl after every bite I swallow. I don't even bother trying to starve myself, I've discovered the hard way that it just doesn't do any justice or good. All it does is fuck up my body's systems and throw my mood into binge-fest the next day. I don't binge, not like I used to. But... there's a part of me that misses that, that still considers the disease a form of empowerment, of control, something forbidden, tortuous, beautiful. Ravaged.
I'm not, by any means, healthy. I'm not recovered; I've still forced myself to purge. It's down to a few times a week, now, rather than multiple times a day. For that, I'm glad. My body, I realize, is not a punching bag. It deserves a lot more love and respect than I've given it. I'm working on that, because I don't want to be some emaciated girl (which I never was to begin with), nor do I want to be this fat blimp couch potato-ing through life (which I do now.) I'm tired of stuffing my face with my emotions, I'm sick of turning to food for comfort. I'm so fucking fed up with myself, with life, with everything. I don't know when things changed in my head, but they are constantly shifting.
One day, I'm fine. I eat without a second thought. The next, I am debilitated by the desire to binge and purge. The next, I want to starve myself into submission. Up and down, back and forth, the pendulum swings chaotically.
I don't really know what I'm babbling about. Sometimes it's easier to think about the physical aspect of things to avoid the ideas and objects that are actually at the center of the problem. I'm just pretending, and sometimes I'm fine with that.
Self-preservation. It can be a beautiful thing. I just don't know if it's sticking around for awhile, or if this is the calm before the storm, the steady before the fall. My world is slowly drifting off course, the ground is shifting askew. I can't say what forces are at work. I only know, I better prepare myself.
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