I'll post more in this thread, mostly just short prose.
I sort of write... a lot. About eating disorders. It always kind of sucks and is a little... abstract, I guess. I wanted to share for a while but I'm so paranoid people will recognise me - nevertheless, here is something that was meant to be an intro for a story, but I scrapped it and now it's just a half completed standalone. Opinions would be nice, maybe make me look like less of a loser aha
TW for binging
"You sure you’re okay?"
He can’t see the pack of store brand cakes at your side, over the phone and miles away, and all you can say is -
"Yeah, I’m sure. Just tired," because that’s the old age excuse everyone knows is a lie but pretends isn’t in the name of some aged etiquette or other. It’s the unsatisfied wives, the bullied children, the debt-ridden student. And it’s you, twenty five with chattering teeth and a deep, empty longing blooming inside you, feeding on the curve of your stomach and the softness of your skin.
Milky, soft, pliable skin, water tension over an ocean of fat. It’s delicate, like a cut could spill your bowels, and it feels like pure, unadulterated weakness. Vulnerable and fleshy, fallen fruit from Eden.
"Would I lie to you?"
And he sighs down the phone, as if the concept is so unbelievable. Your hands curl at the plastic packaging, and you wish it wasn’t such a harsh truth, wish you could live for just a minute as the person you are in his eyes.
You hang up and a crinkle alerts you the package has made its way to your lap, like it’s a temptation and not an inevitability. It’s frustratingly white, clinical, even, And you rip off the plastic covering with ease, feeling the modern miracle screwed up in your fist.
Not hungry, but you’ll eat it anyway. You always do. Stomach sore and red and knuckles itching for a cut, you can always eat more. Always make room for the precious gift of food. Even store brand fairy cakes with white icing, mouth watering and utterly repulsive all at once.
They don’t smell like anything, they never do, but you’re taking a bite before you think about it too much. You would have done this, anyway. No matter how long you thought about it. But it’s better to pretend it’s not happening and that there aren’t five more packets in the cupboard, six more in the car in case someone comes round and thinks to look.
You’re fine. You recovered. It’s nice to revisit old habits though, right? Like giving up alcohol and having a drink every few months with friends to celebrate something. You don’t need it, but it’s nice to have. It’s about portion control. You would know. But the others wouldn’t, wouldn’t understand, and there’s a coat thrown over the shopping bag in the car, in case someone checks. It’s not clear why someone would, but it’s not paranoia because you know you’re doing something wrong. It’s just a precaution, a safety net. Your therapist said it’s good to have those sometimes.
Just what the doctor ordered, and it’s cake number three and it tastes like nothing but nostalgia, dry and familiar and you almost choke on the crumbs, on the stiff, unappetizing icing. The packet protests from the pressure of your hand, nails digging through the flimsy material, and you drop it to the floor. The first of many, and you won’t count.
A bolt of inexplicable terror and you get faster, swallowing and swallowing sickeningly plain cake that scratches the sides of your throat, pressing against them in pieces free from saliva, clumps choking you, warning you off. Tastes like blood, and at least that’s something more than stale chemicals and a clawing, sudden realisation that the empty in your stomach, the void at the end of your throat, can’t be filled; won’t be filled.
But it’s too late to stop now.
my nerves are through the roof right now