Me

What I typed up when I was trying to get over my eating disorder

Me

“You want one?” she hands me a snack. “No it’s fine, I’m not hungry,” I lie. My mind says something but I’ve been used to rejecting whatever’s not in my ‘safe’ list. Fried, carbs and meat are definitely not on it. Why is it so cold indoors? I tug at my cardigan and subconsciously my back is arched but everyone notices except me. My bones start to poke at me, I feel uncomfortable. They are like razor sharp blades coming out of my skin and reminding everyone to look at me, like ‘hey, I poke’. My concentration is fading, my mind wanders to the supermarket and all the good yet unhealthy snacks I can stuff in my bag on the way home. The demons are coming out again and they start poking at my stomach, reminding me of all the things I could put in there at night, when no one is watching. “Just bear with the hunger for now,” they hiss. “You can have all the cookies and cake that you so desire later, and it won’t matter so much if you don't put anything else in there right now.” I listen to them. It’s hard not to. I give them the upper hand all the time. ED 1 - Aya 0.

I don’t know when it all started. I can’t remember how it all began. I’ve been feeling this way for so long. All the lying, all the secrecy, guilt, to those around me, honestly I got used to it. And they did too. 

It’s time to shower. I turn on the radio because I don’t like to have a moment with myself, the music will distract me and I can do my singing-in-the-shower moments. I undress and it feels like peeling off a cocoon from a naked caterpillar. My eyes glance to the mirror. I look so tired. My eyes are sunken in, further perpetuated by the dark eye bags, More sleep would do the trick. This wispy locks of mine need a good wash. This dull, flaky skin needs moisturising Ginvera bird’s nest shower gel and all the promises the advertisements claim. The lovely bones. The flat chest. I am a girl in a boy’s body. A withering body. When have I gotten used to this sight? When have I stopped getting terrified at it, when have I stopped detesting it? Or rather, when have I ever loved the sight of myself?

Hunger

Your mind chooses to forget certain things. After all, forgetting is merely being unable to retrieve something that probably used to be there, just that we can’t find it. In my rare recollections there’s this scene where I stand in front of my full length mirror in my room. This girl stares back at me, but I’m not looking at her. My eyes fixate on the thighs, the tummy, those pudgy ankles. My sister is sleeping. She turns in her sleep. Her tee exposes her slim waistline. I wince. Its a perfect reminder of the ‘love handles’ that I have, of the insults and ridicule I used to take. Tears form in my eyes. I hate it. I hate myself. Why can’t I be like her. Why can’t I be her. Call it a sister complex but I would never admit it. At least not out loud. I always told myself I would grow skinnier. I knew I would. I certainly didn't know I could. But that was the day that I subconsciously decided. And something formed within me. Its like a dark orb formed itself inside of me, but I didn't know it and no one could see it either. Baby goblins in their foetal position and I was just feeding them nutrients for their growth. And my demise.

Everyone struggles with body image and weight issues in their lifetime. Some start to exercise, some just sit back and complain. Some experiment and get.things.done. Would that be considered strength? Or was I weak? I allowed the criticisms to get the better of me, I opened the door and allowed demons to form in me. I never thought I would be ‘one of those girls’, with their frail small self and their bones and their obsessions. People walk past them, murmuring about them and how they allowed themselves to become like this. Now I became one of them and how I wish I could bite off those fingers they stick at me.

The day I became determined to do something about my weight, I was about 55kg. To normal people I was not overweight, just chubby in some areas. But I hated my disproportionate body. My thighs had always been the bane of my life, I would always say. In primary school I was curvier than the other stick-skinny asian girls and I was ashamed of it. People would point at me and my legs and I hated it. I wanted to be like them. When I was older, the insults grew like sharp iron knives that pierced into me and the dark orb inside of me absorbed it all. ‘Thunder thighs’, ‘pig trotters’. Oh, the last one hurt. Other than my body image, I didn't grow as a smart kid. I was a late bloomer, they all said. I wish everyone was that nice. “You’re daft. You’re stupid. Real smart move.” I used to think I was mentally slow whilst growing up, thanks to all the insults I absorbed. My dad always called me stupid and slowly, I started to believe it. So what does a girl do to compensate for the emptiness in her head? I try to focus on my appearance so no one could see the lack in my brain. 

He always pinched my fats. He put a hand around my waist and pinched my tummy fats out of habit. He kept telling me to exercise, to lose weight. He was skinnier than me and it made me feel bad. It made me feel fat. He was like the first one, he too told me to lose weight. I wanted to look pretty in front of him, I wanted him to look at me more. If I was skinnier, sexier, he would treat me better, he would love me more. Maybe that’s why I started after all.

I started my ‘one meal a day’ plan a few years ago. I would have small bites in the day, then a ‘heavy’ dinner at night. Slowly it grew more intense. 

I hate being sick. I want to be normal. No one wants to be with the psychotic girl. No one wants to love anyone who doesn't love themselves. And slowly I started to realise that I can't truly love God without loving myself.

Having suicidal tendencies means to have minimum mettle to continue the fight, being so fearful of the evils inside you. Can you imagine what's it like being imprisoned to your own mind, feeling trapped and suffocated by all the iniquity you conjure inside yourself? You hate it. You hate yourself. You want to make yourself as miserable as possible, to hurt yourself and to starve yourself because punishment is a remuneration. In fact, punishment is an understatement to what you deserve.

“We won’t let go of you,” they said. “You’ll never get away”, “You’ll never get out of this”. I shut my eyes tight and tried to block them out. Purple horns, its gangly frame, mouth gaped black and dank full of sharp teeth bent into a menacing grin. It laughed uproariously. It stretched its long arms out, its sharp entangling claws out to seize me. And I was certain if it got me, it would entrap me forever. Its eyes turned into deep hollow circles, it had no pupils, just an eternity of circles in its eyes that stared right into me. Pungent smell of sulphur, rancid taste of blood and iron. Weird s**t, I know.

“Go away, Jesus please, I’m sorry God I’m sorry!” What can I say, my mind was messed up. I didn't know what I was praying but I certainly was asking for God’s forgiveness.

This was my first time asking for help in a long time. Ted was so helpful. He comforted me in the best way he could, security enfolded me with his ministrations when he asked Jesus to chase the demons away, then he left me alone with God. But most importantly, the demons left me alone. There were others I wanted to call but who could really give me the comfort I needed? Or rather, wanted?

I’m tired, I’m scared. What if I’m not well yet? What if I’m turning mad? Jesus help me.

I'm not afraid of the dark, I'm not afraid of ghosts. I'm afraid of myself, the sense of losing control over my mind, the sense of losing control over myself. I was afraid of the demons that had a hold of me, they swirl around my head, pervading my mind. It poisons my cerebral atmosphere and become words and voices that turn into venomous tools of bitterness, reproach and anger towards no one other than myself. I would still remain in desolation if Jesus had not been here. He wins my battles. I know inadvertently I had nothing to worry about, Jesus is my rock and Saviour. Yet there's this lingering sense of bleak and dreariness has gone far beyond apprehension, it became an inner chaos in me. It stares furtively at me, as if it's playing a game with me. When I pray and God chases them away, when I finally bask in my serenity, they unveil themselves and brace themselves for a self-destructive pandemonium.

NO. Don't take it. Walk away, go home. 

Why do you do it? It's only gonna end up worse for you. Now the sounds of footsteps near you scares you. Overwhelmed with guilt.

“If Summer was fat, I was fatter. Even as I cupped my hands around my hip bones, lay on my back and felt my ribs, saw my abdomen sinking toward my spine, I knew Summer was skinnier. You could have stood her right beside me on a scale and wrapped measuring tapes around us both, and I would have told you there was something wrong with the scales and the measuring tapes. Later I would find out that this sort of dissociation is common to borderlines, and that in fact there is a name for it: “splitting.” For some reason, we have a uniquely difficult time seeing the world as anything other than black or white, “all good” or “all bad.” Incorporating both positive and negative beliefs about a person, including oneself, is largely impossible. We see ourselves and others in an all-or-nothing way: I was not just fat, but the fattest. Nobody else on the planet could possibly be fatter, and if units of measure said otherwise, the units of measure were wrong.”

“It really was that easy to fall back into the eating disorder. Terrifyingly easy, like falling back into the bed of a lover who’s bad for you but turns you on like no one else”

“My mind spins with the things I am forgetting to pray for, things I have done, there is a light flashing in my brain, like the headlight of a train in the dark, the dark is my mind, which teems with sins, which torment me with their noise. I can hear the sins whisper"

“I lie in the dark, blinds drawn, rabid thoughts and images zipping through my brain, flashes of blinding color and light. I lie there, shivering and sweating as the pain clenches my skull, nearly paralyzed with fear at the fierce throbbing behind my eyes."

“I am almost perfect. I lift my arms and admire them, bones covered in gray, dry skin. My fingers run their course over my body: the thin ridge of my collarbone, neck and chest sunken far beneath; the hollow of my cheeks, the way I can run my fingertips along the teeth underneath; the cavern in the center of my body, the way the cage of my ribs curves around the hollow, and my hipbones jut up, the way I can feel my internal organs through the skin. I wrap a fist around each thighbone. My thighs are no longer round. They are just right. They don't exist. I've done it. I've erased myself. I've won."

Stop. STOP. I keep running along this narrow edge, at risk of falling. It's hard to listen when you hear all sorts of voices.