I often contemplate the fact that my eating disorder has softened my fear of mortality: it forces me to confront death constantly, to stare down my Maker and give Her the finger. It has starved me of conviction to live and presents me with an ultimatum that terrifies me stupid: get better and gain weight or continue on this treacherous track to the inevitable grave.
I’ve been in relapse for exactly a year now; it’s the longest time I’ve been in relapse and the hardest 12 months I’ve endured out of the seven years I’ve had this disease (on and off). I don’t actively want to die, but I know that the long term physical effects of starvation and bulimia can be deadly – my pancreas, thyroid and stomach are all fucked already and my teeth, throat and bowels are currently suffering. My heart, more than the other organs, was not built to withstand such punishment and could give out if I decide to push it further. But, I don’t want to stop. The thought of gaining weight paralyses me with terror. I already feel repugnant, disgusting, ugly and overweight. I feel weak for not starving myself more. For not pushing my body to its limits.
I have a soul who loves me more than I could have ever imagined and I fear the effects of my anxiety and ED may have on him. I have my sisters and my nephew and my precious one-year-old niece and another niece or nephew on the way in December. I want to be around for them, I want to cover my skin in pretty artwork and admire the stories that have got me to the places where I want to be.
But I also have days – more often than not – where I want to rip off my skin and muscles and strip down to my bones and rearrange my DNA to be someone more beautiful and accepting of this mortal form.
Ink and Paperbound 