i rarely eat. i make huge meals and then always find some reason, at the last minute, to throw them out. they were overcooked. undercooked. too much salt. flavorless. too much oil. it doesn’t matter what my reason is, i always end up throwing them out.

when i’m with my friends, i make an effort to eat. for them, so they don’t worry. and sometimes, if i’m really lucky, i can forget all of this. i can have the luxury of eating when i’m hungry without feeling guilty. this rarely happens, though. usually i am too busy concentrating on not eating to have time to forget.

i hate the way i feel after i eat. i feel so full, bloated. i have grown used to the gnawing hunger my body is usually filled with. being full is uncomfortable; being well-fed is such an alien sensation. after eating, i feel nauseated. the food inside me churns; it pushes incessantly against the walls of my stomach. i don’t throw up, though. keeping the food down is the last thing i can control; it’s a form of revenge on my body. even if i gave in to my hunger and ate something, i can still control whether it stays in my body or not. after i eat, i feel so sick. guilty. nauseated. fat.

and so i wake up every morning, and i look past the cereal, the eggs, the milk, and decide there is nothing to eat. i spend the entire day thinking of all the things i could eat, but once i go to the kitchen and make them, they suddenly appear unappetizing. if i finally give in and eat something late at night, long after all the sane people are tucked into bed, i sit on the couch afterwards, disgusted with myself. i feel so full. i feel as if i am going to explode from the sheer burden of having this food inside of me. and so i go to bed and skip breakfast the next morning

(it’s okay because i ate yesterday. i don’t need to eat today.)

and part of me, in a deep dark twisted place, feels like all this would be okay (or if not okay then at least worth it) if i was at least thin because of it. but i’m not.