Last night I did something I know I shouldn’t have done. Before I did it, I knew that I would feel terrible after. I knew I would wish I was never born. I knew I would want to lock myself in my room and cry for hours on end.
Yet for some reason, I ignored the few logical thoughts in mind and listened to the voice that I still trust with all my heart – my ED.
Now, before you read any further, let me tell you that what I did didn’t involve me violent throwing up the contents of my stomach or drastically restricting my caloric intake. Actually, the thing I did really wasn’t an eating disorder behavior at all, but I know it was Ed who told me to it because I could recognize the cruel sound of his voice from a mile away.
What I did was look at pictures. Not just any pictures though.
The pictures I was examining were the images of me last year – the year where it was quite evident I had relapsed. It was the year where my face was as pale of Wisconsin’s winter snow and where my cheek bones protruded from my face. It was the year my arms looked like bones with skin wrapped around them and my legs were as stick-like as a bird’s. It was the year where if you looked into my eyes, you wouldn’t see me anymore. My personality had checked out a long time ago and Ed was now calling every part of my skeletal body his home.
The logical side of my brain knew that I was very ill and I looked rather frightening, but I couldn’t help but long to look like that again. I am now 103 pounds at 5’5 and I have never weighed that much in my life. I look in the mirror now and wish I could be a skeleton again. I long to go back to the body where size 0 jeans where too big on me and I had to wear clothing designed for 10 year-olds instead. I long to go back to the body where I could wrap my boney fingers around the top of my arm and have them overlap. I long to go back to the body where I looked like what I want to look like now – an anorexic.