Someone booked a therapy appointment for 8 am on a Monday. I ate an apple in the waiting room while on the phone with my mother. My therapist, a German guy that, unlike every other psychiatrist I’ve ever seen, doesn’t smile at me when I walk the the room or ask me to tell them about what my favourite muffin recipe is. He, instead, crosses his legs and asks my why I hate myself. I reply that I don’t hate myself, I just like control. That, and I think I have super powers, because I can feel the every atom of the apple breaking down inside my stomach. And that its not that I hate the apple; I just hate the it does more good than harm. For the first time someone believes me and doesn’t tell me to “eat more.”
I don't want to be skinny, I just want to be less - so that the outside matches my insides. Not eating is like a high, an ecstasy like no other drug, my little secret, entirely mine. I look in the mirror and she's small and shy, and her bones protrude and she isn't me. But she is me? She's tired. I don't want to be skinny, I just want to be less. I like being able to grab my hip bones in bed, feel my rib cage through my chest, where my breasts should be (but then again, never were). They don't tell you that you feel hollow, cold all the time. That your brain turns to mush, that you can't concentrate. I feel disgusting when in eat, like a whale on a beach. I feel happiest when I'm hungry, dreaming of being full. Mostly, I just want to sleep.
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