Smash the Mirror

I look in the mirror, and an enormous bubble of putrid anger bursts in the pit of my stomach. I disgust myself. My thighs touch. My stomach bulges disgustingly over the tops of my leggings. My cheekbones are hiding in fear beneath a layer of fat, and my bulky arms hang awkwardly by my sides. Oh why, why, why have I been ignoring this weight gain for so long. The constant binge eating. My lazy attitude to exercise.

At one time, a few years back, seeing myself on the brink of actually becoming fat would have been enough to send me into hyperventilation. My mirror would not survive the shock, as I would have smashed it along with all of my other possessions in the vicinity. I would have starved (as in absolutely-no-food-intake-whatsoever-kind-of-starved) for about a week, then survived on vegetables, rice cakes and low calorie jelly for a few months. Nothing over 600 calories a day.

I do not miss the irrational anger, and I do not strive to ever be six stone four again. I was desperately underweight, permanently cold and uncharacteristically withdrawn. I looked emaciated, as I am not built to be thin and my health begins to deteriorate under around eight and a half stone.

Perhaps nobody knew that I could count every single one of my rib bones even when I was trying to push my stomach out, because I always tried to keep them hidden. Perhaps they didn’t realize that sitting down was agony because I hadn’t one ounce of fat on my skinny backside. I suppose I didn’t care whether they knew or not – my brain was most likely deprived of essential fatty acids and so I don’t remember much. I don’t recall thinking of anything except losing weight.

I miss the control. I cannot find an alternative. I miss the thrill, the euphoria, the way that I spent my life alone yet I was never lonely, because I had this fatal obsession to keep me company. I want to be able to go running in the evenings again, and literally feel the globs of fat falling off my thighs and hips. I want to sweat out all of the disgusting processed food I keep eating even though I’d probably enjoy a salad more.

It’s almost as though something is controlling me and trying to get me to force the most calorific food I can find down my neck, and lots of it. I want to torture myself doing fifty sit ups and eighty squats, twice a day, just like I used to, and spend the hour after in a state of euphoric bliss at how hard and toned my muscles feel. Even though it’s probably just a build up of lactic acid.

I don’t have the strength to pull myself out of this. Five years of several lives have been tainted by this deathly, painful struggle. At the present time, I am not outwardly ill, but my relationship with food is far from healthy. This is worse than being too thin, because my body is changing in a way which I hate and I have no control over the food that something is making me eat.

It hurts. Please make it stop.

 

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