I ache all over, places I didn’t even realise could hurt, like the palms of my hands.
My stomach is churning, digesting the next-to-nothing I had for dinner, the laxatives I took for pudding feel like a knife in my intestines. But I needed them. To get all the badness, all the fat heavy food out.
I can’t stop walking, making excuses that mean I need to walk to the shop, but not the closest one. The one 3 miles away. Just for a banana, or cereal bars that I will either bin or throw up depending on the day.
Back home, doing laundry, making tea, pairing socks, painting my nails. Never still, never stopping. Everything done in a way that means I keep having to walk upstairs, or to the bathroom, stand up, sit, wriggle, stand.
Never stopping, because then you feel the fat, the spread of thighs and arms and butt. The weight of self pulling down.
Feeling like a puppet, like someone else is pulling my strings. I have to but I don’t want to, and the whole time the back of my brain is lit up, black and white fuzz, words on fire.
Fat, lazy, stupid, useless, greedy, lazy
And I can’t sleep, sitting awake until 1,2,3am. Watching Netflix, knitting, something to keep me warm, stave off the chill that’s whispering between my ribs.
I want nothing more than to sleep, lie down with my blanket and teddy, and cushions, warm and cozy. Just sleep and not wake up, so all this is finally quiet.
And my dreams are full of demons, dark, flashes of my past, people I’ve left behind, odd half seen shapes that cut deep to a part inside of me that I can’t name. Know
I wake unrested, afraid. And the dance starts all over again. I feel like I’m watching myself from somewhere else. Those spindly hands cupping a mug of soup belong to someone else, that face in the mirror isn’t me anymore.
I’m scattered in the wind, drifting somewhere