This will be gruesome. I don’t think it’s a good idea to even write this here, where so many people can read it. It’s my personal thing, my problem, but what does it matter in the end. I’ve got not secrets (except from the people closest to me), I can talk about this here, where I am anonymous to a certain point (even though people can see my face and what I look like).
I’ve had issues with food as long as I can remember. My memory doesn’t go very far, maybe I’ve blocked these things out of my head, I’m not sure. The whole three years in high school went like this: I didn’t eat at school, I’d go on for days by eating nothing but bread, twice a day and that’s it. I loved the feeling of hunger, it made me feel as if I had accomplished something. I’m 158 cm tall and my lowest weight has been around 48 kgs, which doesn’t sound that bad now that I look at it, but I was really thin. I just couldn’t see it. I usually only ate a real meal on weekends when I couldn’t escape it. It seemed to be working fine, I was losing weight and my performance at school didn’t suffer – hey, I even aced my matriculation exams.
I got out of this vicious circle last year, I just decided it wasn’t worth it, I should enjoy life more. It had been years since I had last eaten candy, for instance. I started eating more, I gained a bit of weight, it didn’t matter. I was happy. I enjoyed life more, it wasn’t dominated by food and the fear of getting fat anymore.
I re-lapsed this month. I stopped eating (not altogether, just that I didn’t eat that “one proper meal a day”), wanted to get thinner again. I call it abusing, I’m torturing myself. I don’t deserve it, no-one does, still I keep on doing it. What’s my excuse? At least I do it to myself and not others. Still, I’m a human too and no human (or animal) should ever have to go through any kind of abusing, be it physical or mental or both. A while ago I realised I was happier when I still ate properly. I was happier, I said it to myself, and it didn’t help. A part of me thinks I deserve all this. That I need to be punished for being me, for being here, for being alive, for everything, even for the things I haven’t done.
It’s all about control with food, look at anorexics, bulimics, over-eaters etc. Control, the first ones have too much of it, the latter one too little, but it’s still about control. And food dominates their life. Food is the essence of their existence, as paradoxic as it sounds. Food is my obsession, but not in a good sense. I hated food when I was younger. If I had had the chance, I would have stopped eating altogether. Same with sleep, I hated sleeping (now I love it though). My relationship with food is so fucked up (pardon my language) that I fear I might never be able to say I’ve fully recovered and gotten over it. That I can promise I’ll never lapse again.
What made me do this to myself again? I had to punish myself for my thoughts, they were stupid, unrealistic and this was the only way. I can’t cut myself, I can’t stand the pain, I can’t hurt myself in a way that leaves marks. So I starve myself. I’ve gotten very weak this month, I’m tired and cold all the time, I haven’t but slept this week, I have no energy to do anything. And alcohol, it affects me too much, little is enough to get me completely drunk, so much that I forget everything around me. I was so out of it yesterday, anything could have happened to me. Anything. I didn’t intend it to go like that, I wasn’t trying to get in to that condition. I did, however, and in the worst case I could be dead. Or at least raped and alone somewhere in Helsinki.
I was lucky, damn lucky, but things could have gone differently. I hope I will never, never forget yesterday, as painful as it is to think about it. I did so many stupid things I didn’t even know I was capable of doing them. This was a lesson I needed to learn, maybe this was the shake I’ve been waiting for, the thing to open my eyes. I don’t want to be that fucked up princess I was yesterday, the pitiful girl with no money and no means to get back home. I was just so lucky to run into a person who cared and had the time to help. Such people are getting scarce today. I’ll never forget that.
I have to turn my life upside down now. I need to re-evaluate everything. I thought I had done that already, apparently not. This has never been diagnosed, but I fear I might be a bit manic-depressive and I’m afraid of myself. I fear I might one day do something to myself, either when I’m deeply depressed or a bit manic. But of course I could be wrong. I usually am. I’m not acute enough to get help. So I choose to suffer alone. I try to be a balanced person, and it always works for a while and then I lapse. I turn into a burden. I am a burden. And an idiot.
I never wanted it to go like this.
