In my childhood bedroom, a beautiful painting of a Native American woman hung on the wall next to the window. I would often stare at it while laying in bed, illuminated due to the required night light, and hallucinate that it turned into ants. I thought it was so real that I would cry and scream for help and my mom would have to come and turn the lights on and show me there were no ants. She would leave and it would happen all over again. I remember telling myself over and over that it wasn’t real, heart racing because I was certain a million ants were invading my room, desperately not wanting to get so worked up over something that must be non-existent but was powerfully real.
I am so certain things are real, once I’ve conjured it up in my head, that no amount of logic can penetrate the pretend premise.
Once I can’t believe I’m this fat enters my mind, it never wants to leave. I can say 500 things to try to destroy it, but it sits there and waits. It waits until it’s 2am (it is) and begs me to do something about it. Pleads with me to start tomorrow with a few grapes and end it with some spinach. Everyone else is on a diet, why can’t I be on one? Everyone else is working out like crazy, why can’t I? No one is calling them crazy, so who could call me crazy?
I just want to sleep.