And what's wrong with wanting to turn someone into the societal image of a glutton?
It's not enough to be fat, I want to see the addict brain. It needs to be an ugly decline. I should know that leaving any food within arm's reach will be eaten, even if the craving isn't there, even if the desire isn't there.
That first adjustment to living with a feeder is rough. Yes it's heaven to be treated well, to not be bothered by any responsibility. The food though. You never ate so much than you did in the first week. Discomfort. Forceful. Laboring on those final bites of a portion multiple times a day.
It fucks you up. You could go well into the next day without even thinking of food. But it's brought early and often. The first sweet and savory morsels trigger you. If you don't have food, you can be fine. If you have food... you can't stop until it runs out, or until you shut down.
How bad does one year of gaining like this hit?
Pleas of needing to slow down, admitting that unless I play along... you'll never find the part of you that can slow down. Anxious, panicked eating. Knowing it's getting BAD. Realizing the reality of being bedridden isn't a fantasy... it happens to people like you. The ones who get accustomed to 3000 calories a day, then 4000, 5000. Never finding a routine where you aren't adjusting to more snacks and meals.
Days become routine. Addicts crave it. Funnels and shakes on Monday. Entire cakes on Tuesday. An entire batch of cookies for Wednesday. Then you start craving the funnel on Thursday again.
The second year puts you in way too deep.
It never became enough. It's embarrassing to have become so trapped in the cycle, but the thought of giving it up is horrifying. Eating quiets the voices. You don't move enough to notice the added weight. You're a shut in. Anything challenging is removed.
It's insanity to process how much food you eat. How much is forced into you when you are already at the point of exhaustion. Becoming accustomed to waking at 4am with something soft and sweet being pushed past your lips. It fucks with your sleep, but food helps you feel drowsy again anyway.
Crying when you break the couch. Unable to get up. Pleading for a break when I situate you in bed next to a plate of desserts. Watching as your eyes glaze over once I prod you to eat. You shut off. Grunting, wheezing as you start plucking food off the tray one piece at a time. Your bed is the only place in the home that can hold your weight. Your own home has become inaccessible.
The failure of your life brings you to this. Bedridden. Soon to be immobile.
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