The sweet aroma of oven-roasted carrots and baked chicken fills my house, making everyone’s stomachs beg for food. Though my mouth is salivating as I imagine the euphoria of putting a piece of moist, juicy poultry upon my tongue, ED wants nothing to do with it. His cruel voice is consuming my thoughts as it becomes closer and closer to time my father will announce dinner is prepared.
“Your dad probably doused your food in buckets of fattening butter and olive oil,” ED shouts in my ear.
“Odds are after you consume the meal, those nice yoga pants you have won’t fit across your ever-growing hips,” He exclaims.
These words of his fill me with an uncontrollable amount of anxiety, almost to the point where I cannot stand it. I don’t want to put my dad’s food in mouth! I don’t want to risk losing my stealth figure!
But I realize that I have no choice.
If I chose to listen to ED and construct my own, 100% safe dinner, I am putting my freedom in jeopardy. I know that if my parents do not see my anorexic behaviors morph into healthy ones, I will be shipped off to a hospital where I will have no control over my weight or body. I can’t have that happen. I just can’t.
I will have to hold my head up high and march bravely into my kitchen – my bloody battlefield. There I must arm myself with my fork and knife and place morsels of the frightening cuisine into my mouth. With each bite that I swallow, I know I am defeating one of my most hated enemies – ED.
I can do this . . . .
Oh god, please help me do this. . .