Admitting you have an eating disorder is the hardest thing you’ve had to do. You hang your head in tears before bringing it back up. You hang your head again. You get up and look at yourself in the light in front of a budget full-length door mirror. Your shape looks good. Ironically, you tell me that your belly aches; You can’t eat. Admitting you have an eating disorder is hard because it means that you’ve been looking at yourself all-wrong. All those times that people said you didn’t have perspective, they were right. And, there’s nothing more painful to you than admitting when other people are right when it interferes with your eating disorder. It’s your precious, priceless, most valuable possession. It’s your crazy. All yours.
Maybe you dated too many guys with money who equally hated that women only liked them for their money, but they would buy time with only perfect women. Maybe you had to prove to an ex-lover that you’re still worse somebody’s chase. Maybe you had hoped nobody would hurt you more than you could hurt yourself. Maybe it took being in a place where nobody was hurting you to stop hurting yourself. I hear your belly grumble; I believe that you can’t eat. You’re thinking outloud, “I am never eating street food again.” You flip on Anthony Bourdain in another act of irony. “What is Anthony Bourdain’s indigestion like?” you mumble.
“Okay, so in college you limited what you ate on purpose and it helped you save money, and it helped you drink more-for-less, and you didn’t have to buy new clothes all the time–so it was a budget plan. Are you afraid of not having money?”
“So, then what is it? You were haunted by insults of being fat, and thinking about compliments of being thin. Can you give up the ghost?”
‘I don’t look anorexic.”
“You want to get on the ground and do sit-ups, don’t you?” You say ‘yes’ but you don’t move. I move around the room and see your nutritional supplements everywhere. “You’re addicted to caffeine, aren’t you?” You say ‘yes.’
“Wow. So, how can you admit it now?” I quiz.
“I’m going to be fine,” you say, “I just need to pick up these pieces.”
Vindicate me, O God,
And plead my cause against an ungodly nation;
Oh, deliver me from the deceitful man!
For You are the God of my strength;
Why do You cast me off?
Why do I go mourning because of the enemy?
Oh, send out Your light and Your truth!
Let them lead me;
Let them bring me to Your holy hill
And to Your tabernacle.
Then I will go to the altar of God,
To God my exceeding joy;
And on the harp I will praise You,
Oh God, my God.