Competition

“The one on top of a pyramid is the only one who’s alone.” – Jamie, my therapist

In my head, it’s still a competition. Who can still come the closest to being anorexic skinny. Who can eat the most slowly. Who’s the sickest. The problem is that I’m not winning – but I don’t think anybody else is competing.

Sitting there at the table during lunch, plate checking like hell and using food rituals to slow myself down, I realized that oh hey – this is PHP, and I’m the only one plate checking. I’m the only one deliberately pacing herself against the others. Everybody else is just sitting there in their own silent struggle. I’m the only one who’s turned it into a contest.

At least, as far as I can tell from the inside of my own head, I am.

I’m constantly comparing. New admit – am I skinner than she, or is she thinner? Buttlegsthighs? Armswaiststomach? Who has managed to keep the life off? Who has managed to retain the evidence of their illness? Who has won?

Except it’s an odd kind of winning, isn’t it? Who can come the closest to dying without really doing it?

I’m not sure this is a game in which I want to compete…

 

 

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