On the top of each date square in my calendar, on my computer, there is a number.
That number represents how many calories I get to eat that day.
The numbers start out small and get smaller every week. Every ten days or so I throw in a bigger number to keep my soon-to-be sputtering metabolism in check. Bigger, not big. But it feels big. And I feel big.
And I wake up the next morning wondering how it's possible that my thighs ballooned by six inches overnight. But then I follow the numbers, and after a few days, I feel better.
Starving isn't even painful anymore. It's normal. Eating a solid meal is what's abnormal. That's what's uncomfortable. That's what gives me panic attacks and forces me to reach for my lorazepam.
"Do you think you can do this on your own?"
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm not doing it on my own. I have a therapist and a dietitian. And I am managing just FINE, thank you very much. I pulled myself out of a decided death bed two months ago and I can do it again. See, see how the numbers start getting bigger again before Christmas and spring break? That's so I can go through refeeding and eat normally in front of my parents.
"What about the panic attacks you get now when you try to eat normally? What do you think will happen after you've been starving yourself for even longer?"
I think I'll feel better about eating normally because I'll be at a lower weight, that's what I think. And I won't have panic attacks because the number on the scale will be more tolerable for my brain.
"Do you want to get better?" my therapist asked me.
"Yeah, definitely," I said. Like she had just asked me if I wanted to make a Starbucks run. "I mean, if someone could just wave a magic wand, I'd let them. But I know that's not how it works, so..." I want Starbucks. I just don't want to drive to Starbucks. Could someone take me there? Or better yet, pick up coffee and bring it back to me? In my apartment? So I don't actually have to do any work? And while they're at it, my laundry needs doing.
Basically, I want recovery to happen to me. I want it to fall into my lap like relapse and coke seem to fall into my lap.
It has fallen into your lap, you dumb shit. It's a new year. You have a new apartment free of bad memories. B. fucking thinks you're the most beautiful woman in the world and you KNOW you could call him this second and he'd jump at the opportunity to help you in any way he could. If somebody made a pill that instantly cured anorexia in one dose you'd probably find an excuse for why it's too much of a hassle to take it. "Oh, but I have to go all the way to CVS to pick it up? The Ralph's pharmacy doesn't carry it? Fuck that shit."
*Whine whine yeah but whine whine whine*
I think that's my super-ego. I'm pretty sure that's what it is.
Am I, as my super-ego, accusing myself of not wanting recovery? Because I do want recovery. I do. Not badly enough. No; I do. It just, it's a slow process.
Fine. Take the first step. Delete the numbers from your calendar. Like you won't remember them anyway. Just take them off. You can still restrict. All you have to do is highlight and hit a button.
... Yeah. No.
Why not?
Because I want to lose weight.
So you don't want recovery.
I do. I just want to lose weight.
You want to recover but lose weight.
Yes. No. What? No. I want to -- I want to not want to lose weight.
You know, you KNOW if you keep "moving in the right direction" --
Fucking euphemisms --
You'll eventually not want to lose weight.
I don't know that.
You'll find other things in your life. You'll get an agent. You'll get booked. You'll have B. You'll have friends. You'll be working and playing and fucking and you'll stop caring about some petty number.
I have no proof that any of those things will actually happen.
True. The only thing you have proof, certainty of is that they WON'T happen if you die.
Fuck you.
Do you want to die?
No! Fuck no, that's the most terrifying thing... I just don't think any of those other things will actually happen.
Would you rather die or live a life of misery?
Live a life of misery. And I'm probably an idiot for that, but at least there's some adventure involved in a life of misery. More adventure than there is in death, anyway.
Would you rather die of anorexia or be fat?
... Shut the fuck up.
It's just you and your super-ego here.
It's me and my super-ego talking on my blog.
Oh yes, your blog, with your ten million followers. Answer the question.
I would RATHER rather be fat than die of anorexia.
That wasn't the question. As you are, now: two alternatives -- a lifetime of being decidedly FAT, or your romantic little death from anorexia at an absolutely emaciated weight. Which is it to be?
Neither.
But if you had to choose, right now.
I have an answer. But I'm so ashamed. I plead the fifth.
You don't want to recover. You WANT to want to recover. There's a difference.
What the hell is this, six degrees of separation from recovery?
No. Just two.
Fuck you. I'm going to masturbate and then I'm going to bed and I'm going to forget this conversation ever happened.
Yeah; enjoy your decrease tomorrow. That's what you've got on your calendar, isn't it?
Go away.
I'm your super-ego; I don't go away.
You're more obnoxious than Jiminy Cricket on Prozac.
Hey AJ.
What?
You're so anorexic, when your eating disorder does its taxes, it lists you as a dependent.
Get fucked.
*
I think I have the bitchiest super-ego on the whole damn planet.
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