I love feeling light like a feather. I love the feeling of hunger pains. The way baggy jeans slip to my hips and how jumpers no longer make me feel like the elephant in the room. I love being skinny so much. I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
You wake up in the morning and wish you didn't. The heartbeat practically killing you is so fast, so slow at the same time. If you move, you will die.
(Back when you were okay, you used to have the windows open in August, maybe even sleep in underwear. Back when you were--)
Frozen. Goosebumps line skin hidden under layers and layers of fabric. You shift now, gently, until you're sitting up on the side of the bed. Too miserable to shiver now, only to wait for the pain to strike a little less violently. Your reflection across the room catches your eye. It stares at you now. You don't recognize it.
There is shame to be felt as you strip down on the scale and step on, then immediately off again. This number will dictate your day and if it's one you don't like, then lord fucking save you.
On. Off. Nudge it with your foot across the floor (because if you bend down you will take an hour to get back up without feeling nauseous) to see if the number is different on the other side of your room. Why is it up now? You shift it back, and stand one more time defeatedly before dressing back up.
Your family eyes you. The air is tense, it is thick. They know what is wrong with you. They are scared to admit it. You take your morning coffee and skulk back like a creature of misery, leaving an opportunity to be okay behind you. As always.
(Will you ever change, you sickly creature of habit? Or has the comfort of being distressed perpetually sunk in too deep?)
Sink back into bed, your energy is spent. And you aren't even pretty yet. And you will never be.
It feels so awful to be at a higher weight today than this time last year , and be losing so slowly that I know by new years I’ll still be bigger than I was in November 2022 :/