The worst part of anorexia is also the best... the ability to starve away any emotion in favour of feeling fat. When you're consumed by how little you're consuming, and all you can hear is your body crying for nutrition and the voice screaming at you about how fat you are, it's hard to notice much else. You don't have to be sad, you don't have to feel angry, you don't have to dislike anything but yourself, and that's strangely comforting. Like slipping into bed with an abusive ex, whose apologies and claims of love are far less frequently heard than the deathly whispers of your lack of worth, and whose kisses are felt far less from their lips than they are from their fists, there's an uncomfortable comfort in the nostalgia.
But when you hate yourself more than you hate the people who hurt you and stole your self-worth, there's a deadly discrepancy. Emphasis on deadly. What once was a viable plan to exist only in a bubble of self hatred, becomes an inescapable reality. The bubble gets smaller and smaller, until it literally begins to spread from a mental horror to a physical emergency, too. We all claim it won't happen to us, that our bodies can take more, but we're still human. Avoiding human emotions doesn't strip us of our humanity in a physical sense. We can die. We will die.
I'm faced at the moment with two options. I relapse again and I die, or I go keep going through hell to claw myself out of the suffocation of the bubble. I'm not being melodramatic and it's been said to me by numerous professionals; I can die. I will die. My body won't cope with another relapse- it barely survived the last one. I've beaten enough of my demons to decide, finally, that I don't want to die, but I feel like everyone is waiting for me to slip. In a way, they are. They want to catch me, should I fall, and try to prevent the apparent inevitability of my demise. I just want somebody to tell me that they trust me and my strength, but people, in general, have to look for the negative in order to plan to avoid it. We all need insurance. I'd worry, too.
Fighting is my only option, but it's harder than it sounds because, well, it just is. It hurts like hell and there's no promise of success, but I need a life. I want to feel 24, not 84. I want my freedom and I want options, choices, not inevitabilities. I'm ready for this, but I'm so, unbelievably, scared. All I know how to deal with is hunger pains, not mental ache. And God, do I ache.