Trigger warning: The following contains brief mentions of eating disorders and anxiety.
It’s 12:13am and I find myself in the kitchen with my second bowl of frozen fruit. I had yogurt in the first bowl, and this time it’s milk that is stained red by the cherries and is frozen by the chunks of solid banana. It’s an odd choice for someone with an eating disorder, but I often binge in the evenings and tonight is no exception. It’s at odds with my desire to disappear into my own bones, but I figure I can exercise extra tomorrow to make up for it.
I’m wearing my favourite sweatshirt, an over-sized black one with the name of my birth country in red across the chest. It has a hood that I like disappearing into, one that lets me hide from the rest of the world. After all, if I can’t hide from my own head then I sure as hell am going to hide from everything else.
I’m busy working my way through my book, The Hundred Foot Journey. It’s great so far. This distraction works better than music, because even with my headphones blasted I can still hear the screaming in my head whereas the letters on the pages seem to quiet the voices for a while.
So I keep reading, even though I have a quiz early tomorrow morning, and work after that. Then more study. Coffee is a last resort, and breakfast is always optional. I keep reading and I write a little bit and I eat even though my stomach is so full it hurts and I don’t go back to bed, because my anxiety attack lasted a full forty-five minutes and not even playing through the Frozen soundtrack seemed to help like it usually does.
I don’t go back to bed. The voices wait for me there.