The Warzone

Ugly, pale peach laminate countertops. An elderly electric stove. An off-white refrigerator speckled with a few light-brown food stains. If you guessed that I am describing my kitchen, you’re correct. But what you probably didn’t realize was that I am also describing my own personal warzone.  Here in this very room, my parents throw verbal bombs at me. They yell at me when they believe I am consuming an insufficient amount of calories or ingesting foods that have the word “Lite” on the label. On top of my parent’s lexical warfare, I also having ED to fight with. Every time I try to put just a morsel of food in my mouth, he begins to execute his strategic plot to pull me away from the table. He whispers in my ear that I am fat, ugly, and worthless. He tells me that my treatment team’s main goal is to make me obese. He informs me that if I eat another bite, I might as well die because according to him, being buried in a cemetery is a hell of a lot better than having love-handles.

With all this external and internal havoc that goes when I enter my kitchen, it is honestly a wonder I still go in there every day and prepare my meals. But I realize I must keep going in there, even if it means I will be judged by my parents and bombarded by ED. I need to tune out both of these vicious armies and keep on trudging on because this recovery is for me, not anyone else. Therefore, I will keep my head up and keep walking through the bomb fields and the shooting ranges till I win my battle. Till I am recovered.


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