I’m hungry, and I hate myself for it. I eat, and I despise every swallow. With each bite that goes into my body, I can practically feel it land on my hips or build up in my butt. I know it’s irrational, but that doesn’t make a difference.
Still, I must act opposite.
Recovery is completely the reverse of how I want to feel. It hurts, it’s sucky, I feel gross, I’m disgusted with myself, I hate every moment of it. The protests in my head beat on the walls of my mind until their fists hurt. I do not feel lovely, I do not feel strong, I do not feel like I’m doing something good.
But still, I know it is the opposite.
I wish that I had gone all weekend without eating, fueled by the high of restriction and over-caffeination. I wish that I were empty, floating like a thin string plucked in the air. I wish that I had given into the urge and exercised again and again and again.
But still, I have done opposite.
My eating disorder wants me dead. It wants me crippled, neurotic, obsessive, trapped by a complex held only within my own mind. My eating disorder does not want me to explore, to have adventures, to be alive and live. My eating disorder wants every part of me, down to my core, annihilated.
I know I want opposite.