Food is the narcotic. Eating is the addiction.
I want to call him and hear his voice.
I want to send him links to videos, to some of your blogs, to articles, to words, to pictures, to voices, to help him listen to mine. I want him to help me.
But I don't want him to understand.
I can't do it to him.
Not only do I fear losing him (for what 19 year old boy wants to deal with a crying 22 year old falling to pieces on their shoulder?) But I fear I will destroy him as much as I have destroyed myself.
"You don't see the world like I do."
"What do you mean?"
"You don't see pain and sadness like I do; you don't see the pain and sadness in the world like I do."He's never cried like I have. Why the hell would I do that to him? Why the hell would I make him see the world like I do? why rip the rose-tinted glasses from his face? why kill the pure smile? why darken the bright, innocent eyes?
Why make him see pain and sadness? Why explain it?
I'd be killing him until he's dead like me.
And I know there's no way back. Once you've seen it, once it's touched you, there's no way back from it's grasp.
I could give him things to read that could make him feel and understand so easily.
'What if summer...' asked me if I wanted to get better.
The truth is... I cannot answer that. My lips and voice will say 'yes'. But my head and heart are disconnected from both those organs. In the real world I have learnt to lie without feeling anything. That's what Ana and Mia taught me.
I want to be happy - I can say that much for certain.
But I don't know how to get there or what that will take.
I don't know what recovery is.
I cannot imagine going through therapy and getting better - perhaps that means I am doomed, I don't know. I cannot imagine my life without an ED, and yet people say it is possible. I don't know that I can give up something that makes me who I am.
I've always wondered, does this blog get read by psychiatrists, students, professors, researchers? Do you read this blog and other blogs to try to understand? And if so, what do you learn? Can it make you help us? Can it make you understand?
I've always thought, rather than me sitting there trying to give you answers, trying to put my disorder into figures and meanings, it would be so much better for the psychiatrist on the other side of the table to just read my blog.
I cannot explain my eating disorder to you in any other way than to tell you this: My life is a living, breathing, beating HELL. And it's me.