Trigger Warning: This post contains an extensive discussion of anorexia, especially its head games.
If you eat, you will get fat. You will grow like a balloon animal, filled with sludge. Every mouthful, self, is another addition to you—nothing goes away. You are a garage, self, stuffed with junk.
Fat to your bones, self, you are fat to your core. You could be skeleton, passing, still weighted down with ten pounds, self, twenty pounds to spare.
Shame, self, you should feel shame when you eat, shame when you chew, shame when you swallow. It’s weakness, self, to eat
, to feed your body when it asks for nutrients. People are watching, self; you’ve taken too much. They can see your fat when you sit, when you bend, when you move. When you swallow, your stomach expands, bulges over your pants. That stomach makes you worthless, self, worth less. Go ahead and cry, but it will only make you uglier.
Step on the scale, self, if you were twenty pounds lighter (forty pounds lighter—fifty) you would be a person. Right now you’re a jello animal, jiggly, wiggly, disgusting. Carve off bits of your body, self, restrict, exercise, restrict; you’ll die if you don’t.
You’ll die if you do.
You were weak, you ate; I demand you purge.
Lies, self, these are lies. You can’t see past the hands pressed into your eyes; they’re not your hands. But self, these words are lies. You’re not fueled by hunger, you’re fueled by hate; Ana hates you, wants you suffering, wants you dead.
Ana says you are alone.
But Ana lies. You are not alone.