Contaminated

I don’t know who I am. I can define myself with numerous labels – a woman, an ex depressive prone to relapse, a failed anorexic, a bisexual, a Caucasian, daughter of a chronic alcoholic father and a catholic mother, Irish American, occasional writer/poet, singer of loud songs, a Wiccan, an animal lover, a sufferer of EDNOS hell. But none of these things match up to what I feel. What am I? Who am I?
I am a contradiction, emphasised perfectly by my eating disorder. I starve for days, then eat and feel atrocious. I am a Perfectionist to some degree, I never feel good enough. I am a control freak and I am renowned for always getting my own way.
I am a sadist and a masochist. Inflicting pain feels so good, especially to yourself. I like my black outs, chest pain and dizziness thank you. This is why I starve. If I feel the effects, I know I’m doing something right. I want to wake up in the morning, bones bruised from a night of tossing and turning on my soft comfortable mattress. I want to feel permanently cold, to stroke the lanugo on my body, to feel the aching of hunger unsatisfied, to faint and bleed. I want my bones to jut out at odd angles, I want size 6 jeans to drown my fragile frame. I want to go for days on nothing but diet coke and coffee. I want to feel light headed, light at last. I want the scale to measure me smaller and smaller every single morning. I want people to worry, to pressure me to eat, to tell me “You look like a Holocaust victim”, to hug me and feel nothing but bones and cold flesh. I want to feel good enough, thin enough at last, no fat bulging under the skin, just bones and tendons and the barest of toned muscle. I want people to marvel at my self control.
Self control is a tricky one. Do I have it? Yes I haven’t eaten more than 300cals altogether in 3days, but I fear that one bite and I will never stop. I fear a single bite of some unsafe and dangerous food will make me balloon to the size of a hippo or a sumo wrestler. I fear I am one of those fat women, stomach lolling over pubic hair, thighs baring rolls and rolls of flab, so big that they can’t even see their own feet. Yes, that’s what I will become if I eat even one bite. You see, starving isn’t showing self control, not really. Eating and not binging or becoming obese, now THAT shows self control. To be able to eat less than 500cals a day and lose weight and to do it consistently…that’s self control. Flat out not eating is easier. When all food is banned you don’t have the constant thoughts of “Maybe just a little bit of….” Or “well if I only eat half of it, that’d be X amount of calories…” It’s simpler. You just say NO.
I’m going to be Perfect. Yes I am. I’m going to master restriction. I’m going to master eating nothing but special k and apples for months on end. I’m going to be bony and emaciated. My body is finally going to show how sick my mind is. Because, rationally, I know what I’m doing isn’t normal or right. I know I could die. I know that most girls my age don’t have food and calories and fat grams running around their heads all day long. Most girls don’t have a secret stash of diet pills hidden in their bag. Most girls don’t spend their last few euros on a calorie counter book. Most girls don’t jump on the scale first thing in the morning and have their day and eating habits ruled by what it says. Most girls actually enjoy going out to dinner for a date. They don’t dread it. They don’t order “Just a salad, no meat, no cheese, no dairy, no sweetcorn and no dressing for me thanks” or sip half their soup as slowly as possible and avoid the dessert. They don’t drink gallons of ice water and diet coke at the table to fill them up just in case – God and Goddess forbid – they actually get tempted to eat something else other than the wilted lettuce and watery broth they’ve ordered. They don’t play with their food, push it around the plate, take one huge bite and run to the bathroom to spit it out just to make it look like they’ve eaten more than they have. No, most girls aren’t like me. Most girls memories of school aren’t tainted with the lunches they skipped, the coffee and caffeine pills ingested just to keep going, the whizzing whirring of their head as it battles to stay in this world. They don’t remember the cold winter morning walking to school and feeling hungry and dizzy in the morning light. They don’t remember the fear of being found out by friends. They don’t remember the days when temptation grew too much and they sat on the grass studying, eating an entire pack of donuts, or in the sixth year room making buttery microwave popcorn and toasted cheese sandwiches. They don’t remember the fear, the unbelievable “What have I done, oh shit I’m getting fat LARDASS” rant in their heads. They didn’t conspire with the school anorexic, comparing intake and exercise regimes, or sitting around eating thin slice rice cakes and low calorie soup for dinner when trying to get homework done .No, most girls aren’t like me.
Most people aren’t like me. Most people like food. They find pleasure in it and enjoy it. I do too, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t have the guilt and fear associated with consumption. I love food a little too much. I am obsessed with it. I love its preparation, its smell, the enjoyment it brings. But I fear it. I fear its effects. I hate the full feeling, the satisfied feeling most people cherish after a good meal. Empty feels so much better. I also fear the guilt that comes with food. For most people, eating a banana or some sweetcorn is fine, not a problem. Hell they’re good for you dammit! But for me? Nuh uh. Not going to happen. I just can’t. I love preparing food, chopping it, stirring it, weighing each ingredient carefully, smelling it cook, but I hate the feel of it. The textures…they’re…well the feel of food makes me feel dirty. Contaminated. Especially cookie dough. I HATE the feel of cookie dough.
I find solace in people who have the same attitudes to food. I love hearing that so-and-so has an eating disorder, particularly anorexia. But I get insanely jealous. As I’m EDNOS and eat every couple of days (about 1500cals since you asked) my weight yoyos from 105lbs to 112lbs so I’m either underweight or normal weight, so I never have that emaciated glow. So I get jealous of anyone who is better at restricting than I am. I recently found out a girl I went to school with is anorexic and bulimic and is “tiny” according to those who’ve seen her. She is a trigger to me. I must be smaller.
Triggers are funny things. Anything can trigger me. Comments about anyone losing or gaining weight is a trigger, as is anything about the fat/calorie/protein etc count of food. The scale is an obvious one, but waking up can be just as problematic. Waking up fat is a common start to all my days. That feeling of having expanded is a terrible one. That is why the scale is so important. It reassures me that I am not 120lbs like I feel. It tells me that despite the incessant fat feeling, I am actually getting smaller. Bones are triggers too. Seeing a rib or feeling my wrist bones are wonderful ways to cheer me up. Whenever I feel paranoid and sad I can often be found lying in bed cupping a hip bone, or circling my wrists. Collar bones are wonderful inventions; I could stare at and feel mine for hours. Basically, anything is a trigger for me, which is why taking away my scale will never stop me.