Cutting up vegetables for dinner and I thought how undeserving I am of them, because of the size I am there is no proof I cut these greens up every single night.  I should be a lean mean machine but I am not, might as well say to hell with it and gobble up the mac and cheese mum is making but I can’t. I am denied the luxury of eating a filling meal well at least in front of people, even in secret bingeing is not that enjoyable. No amount of solitary delicious binges can ever equate with eating and retaining a wholesome meal enjoyed with family- I haven’t had that in over a decade, truly. I can only vaguely remember the feeling when I was 8 or 9 eating rice, chicken and various mayonnaise dressed salads without any guilt creeping in afterwards.

There is so much discomfort in this skin I am in, I can’t believe it’s mine. It feels as though something is attached to me or to my hips at least. Maybe it’s all an illusion and my body isn’t this massive. I looked at my reflection today on a window outside and I could not recognise this pudgy woman with chipmunk cheeks and fleshy knees. I thought to myself “oh come on” as if that would have made all the fat bits melt away.

It’s time for dinner and it’s time for the dance, mum looks at me with a talking eye that no longer pleads for me to put more on my plate but now says “I can’t believe you’re still doing this yourself”. In a way it is relieving, this “silent acknowledging” of my eating disorder as opposed to verbally addressing it every single meal time.


2 thoughts on “Discomfort

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