She will forget you ever existed. Her memory of you will become fragmented into delicate pieces of information that will be shredded and placed in the trash. She would rather have it that way, so she could be alone. She will take every word you say and analyze it until it means something it was never meant to mean. Something she can use to tear herself down some more, something she can use to discard you. You are in the way of a colossal relapse.
Late last night, in a moment of what I would describe as unexpected depression, I hastily wrote off everyone. Every single person who (I perceive) loves me. I imagined not answering any phone calls from anyone. I convinced myself that everyone would get in the way of my goals, and the most important thing was reaching those treasured goals. Goals I had made up just minutes prior. The most important thing was my eating disorder. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. What a dangerous state to be in. This is exactly how I behaved in March. I didn’t even entertain talking to my husband. I was short and frustrating. He knew something was wrong but couldn’t quite figure it out and our communication consequently melted. I ignored everyone’s texts and phone calls or responded with minimal responses in order to not come across as completely rude. Maybe they would just think I was busy.
This is happening nightly. Every night I resolve to lose weight. I wake up with a little more reason than I went to bed with and decide to eat breakfast and worry about lunch later.
I don’t even understand why I am so obsessed with being skinny anymore. I really feel like the version of myself that I wish was more prominent doesn’t care for a second about any of that. That version cares about being mostly healthy but doesn’t care what other people are thinking and is definitely not constantly worrying about being too fat. That version does things for the purpose of feeling good.
I wear a size small in almost every brand of women’s clothing. That is real. That has to mean something. Get it, you’re not fat. There is never enough proof.
Sometimes I think my imagination is inexplicably advanced for someone no longer in elementary school. The unreal things I can dream up are so insane. I dream them up so much that I think they’re real. It’s like telling a lie so many times that you start to actually believe it yourself. I have mastered this.