Please die, Ana

[gypsystears]

Every day, I sit at the table with my demons and wonder if every bite of food is a victory or a defeat. I'm consumed by thinking about how fat I am and how thin I was, and how deeply I still want collarbones that catch rain drops, how exciting it felt to not have my legs touch anywhere until the knees, or that rush I felt when I zipped up a size 0 for the first time and was so close. And then I also remember that confusion when I looked down at my own chest and could see the shapes of my ribs above my breasts, the points of my hip bones rising up high when I laid down on my back, and the red marks where my spine was sore from sitting or laying down. And even being able to see and feel my bones everywhere, I remember grabbing my flesh with my hands and knowing I was still too fat for my height because I was able to grab flesh at all, or telling myself that because I still had breasts and a jiggly butt that I was nowhere near underweight yet. I didn't have a scale because I wasn't allowed to weigh myself, because then I weigh myself after every meal, every trip to the bathroom, and every time I clean myself out throwing up or using laxatives. Some days I wanted to escape and knew I was in a dangerous level of Hell, and other days I danced because I was fine and knew that I wasn't obese anymore and I could be as thin as I wanted to be. And then I look at myself now, fat as ever, and am angry at myself because I gave up trying and let myself be fat again instead of saying no to something as temporary as what tastes good.

And every day when I sit down to eat, I can't tell which of us is screaming louder or which of us I even want to win anymore.