Each time I eat, I face a choice. Do I please anorexia? Or do I please recovery?
I look at my food and I wonder what to do. Eat it? Or not?
Every day I battle against anorexia.
I long to be able to eat the food I love. I admire it, I smell it, I make it, but I cannot bring myself to eat it.
I wish I could eat, without the all-consuming guilt.
I wish I could eat, and enjoy it. I want to treat myself, I want to have a little extra, I want to have some energy. But anorexia tightens it’s icy grip around my throat.
I must fight against my mental jailor, just to be able to eat enough to stay alive.
It’s a war that leaves my mind shattered, my body beaten.
Every day I battle against recovery.
My recovery is a web of lies. The complicated lies I construct to convince those around me that I have eaten are draining me.
It would be easier to just eat.
And yet, instead, I muster up what little energy I have left and channel it into lies, into manipulation, into fighting the people who are trying to help me.
It is a battle to eat, and a battle not to eat.
I cannot win.