The Monster In My Mind
The vacant look you see in my eyes, the tears that swell that you're sure will fall, the softness in my usual tone, it's worse than what you thought. I live with a monster in my mind. This monster forces me to believe in its interpretation of others' actions and words despite the ongoing evidence that they're nearly always incomplete. This blog post will depict to minds besides mine the realms in which anorexia resides.
A Breakfast
Today, I struggled. Because of the time an easy task took someone else, I thought the lack of mindfulness in being haste meant that me eating wasn't a priority. In some ways, it's helpful to put this thought and feeling into text like this because it solidifies the part of me that recognises what a reach this conclusion truly is and how far from reality it is of those who love me. It meant that when we were all ready to sit down and eat, the timing of it all felt imperfect. This was coupled with the fact that my existing belief had surfaced... I don't deserve to eat. As I persevered through the voices telling me that I had an all too convenient excuse not to eat, I had to endure the relenting feeling of self-disgust and hatred for the number that stared me in my eyes as I did my morning weight. The night prior, I increased to share a memory with my family. Although I know logically that my weight can't go up by actual weight in such a short time, I hated how any part of me regretted a moment that was so special to all of us. I hate how anorexia robs me of feeling complete emotions. One way or another, they are tinged with negativity or dismay. After breakfast, my Dad said he was proud of me and when I asked him why, he pointed out the fact that I'd eaten something that didn't have the nutritional panel still next to it. This is one of my biggest food rules and I'd unintentionally broken it. When my Dad pointed that out to me, I immediately felt the guilt consume me. Whilst I wanted to say thank you, share the pride with my Dad and relish in the blessing that it was to be recognised, I instead, felt like such a complete failure to the one thing that (is supposed to) make(s) me feel perfect.
A Lunch
My family had two things that they wanted to do but because we wouldn't be able to make it home for lunch, they decided against doing them. It's moments like these when I consider myself an exceedable burden, especially when I can read the frustration on their face and hear it in their tone. I understand that it unravels more within the situation than it does with me as an individual. Nonetheless, I cannot help but internalise it. I blame myself so much that when I detect it in others, it feels like I'm drowning in the omnipresent belief that my existence takes from others more than it gives. When my family and I were seated for lunch, I felt an overwhelming sense of pressure to eat and to do so without struggle because everything had been centred on the hope and belief that this meal support would prevent restriction. Equally, I felt disgusted with myself that so much had been organised around eating a meal. It made me feel greedy, needy and heavy for the fact that everyone had gone out of their way so I could eat. Whilst we ate, anorexia told me how I didn't deserve to be eating, how I eat too much and do so too frequently.
A Dinner
My parents tell me when I need to start preparing. But on this night, as a result of their preoccupation with preparing their own dinner and a case of miscommunication, I hadn't even started when they were almost ready. Anorexia concluded that this meant my parents didn't want me to eat. Despite their best efforts, it had been clouded by the relenting illness barking lies at me: 'They don't care about you eating', 'Their mistake means that you don't look sick enough to scare them', 'You're an inconvenience', 'They want you to skip this meal', 'You make everything worse', 'You are the cause of their panic and dismay', 'They didn't try in the right way which means you don't have to try, now, to eat.' What already felt insurmountable became even more so, not just on me as one unit but on us as a family. My parents felt broken down by the fact that yet again, I was broken, tears streaming down my face and declaring how frequently and intensely I was yet again, struggling.
'I'm so done with this horrible eating disorder. I just can't live like this anymore.'
This torturous illness knows no boundaries, spreads no goodness and speaks no truth. Even if it wasn't such a deadly illness, it would still kill with its cunningness, inescapability and ruthlessness. I hope that in my transparency, someone out there can know that they are not crazy as their mental illness tells them, they are not the only ones exhausted by the emotions that eat them alive and they are not the only ones broken in half at the centre of having two unique and vastly different desires.
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