Saturday, April 24

So, so sad. And disheartened.

Doing things I shouldn't do, and I come upon a thread on a message board saying, Who else is anorexic? and there is more than one reply that says: I just started ana, but...

Double take. This isn't real to me again, not yet. It'll take awhile to desensitize myself to these kinds of people, these kinds of views on the disease that has surely killed me.

A boy brags about his 2-year stint with "ana," how he's lost 70 pounds, how he only eats 400 calories a day. No, I'm screaming. No, love, no! This is prejudicial, but my empathy is a hundred times greater for the boys and so is my scorn, because people see these things and assume I am the same. I'm not, though, or so I pretend.

On the flipside, anorectics are competitive, and I think HA! I bet I've lost more than that and I've gone weeks on only 100 cals/day, so go fuck yourself. Not to mention, I'm skinnier than you you asshole.

I guess these are the thoughts I'm most ashamed of, the ones I'm most strict about hiding from people. And there they are, for all of you (whoever you are). Good thing Ethan's not reading.

Through all this, my thoughts skip back to my full tummy and regret. I could probably still purge, I keep thinking. There's probably time. But I don't. I could go running, I think. There's plenty of time to do some sit-ups or something. There's also plenty of time tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that until death catches up to me, to not eat. Plenty of time, plenty of time, except there really isn't, because I'll be dead before I'm 40. Or 30. Or 22, if the rest of the year goes like this.

I'm hungry.


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