FUCKED

Today's word is FUCKED.

Don't believe me? Let me give you a recap of my day, and we'll see if we still disagree.

I am fucked.

SO FUCKED.

About a week ago the mother came across my pro-ana site and confronted me. It was a terrible tearful and snotty conversation. My eyes were puffy all day and I had a horrible migraine. I downed my sorrows in shitty, horrific beer and energy drink. I spun in the summer darkness of a park playground until I felt like throwing up. No one knew why I was so sad. I didn't tell anyone. I just pretended to get a CAT scan in the little plastic tube, and melt away from reality. I convinced the mother not to tell the father and I said I would work on it. Work on it, like it was a homework project.

I thought, how nice. She's being so supportive and patient.

Fast-forward one week. We have another talk. I cry more. everything falls apart.

I've been looking online for a group. Remember, we talked about that?
Oh.
I found this summer camp in on the mainland.
(Great. Crazy Camp.)
And I want to book an appointment next week for family counseling.
(Double great.)
And I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell your dad.
YOU CAN'T!
You're sick and he needs to know...blah blah blah statistics...blah blah blah you're going to die.
I have to go. I'm going to be late for dinner.

She made one giant mistake. When you have an eating disorder...You. Don't. Care. If. You. Die.

I don't.

So, that's the verdict. I have to tell the father and ruin his Father's Day, his new-family-new-baby-new-life plan. I have to call my old clinic and book an appointment. With a new psychiatrist. A new one. I hated the old one. She would look at me like I was weak. She told me my ideal weight was too low and that I should eat more and stop purging. As if I didn't already know.

It doesn't matter what statistics you throw at me. I. Don't. Care. If. I. Die.

And that's how it was this morning. I woke up exhausted, weak, hungry. It was 5:59 am. I couldn't sleep. Tried to close my eyes. Woke up again half an hour later, and again and again and again. Dammit! Can't sleep. The phone rings. Shift tense.

RING RING RING

My fate awaits me. It's the mother and when she says come over, we need to talk, my day takes a sharp turn for the worse.

I hide out in my room all day. When was the last time I hung out with my friends? Went outside other than to exercise? Watched a movie? Laughed? Had fun? I am the hermit who sings low and pitiful songs of regret in his cave. I am the bacteria that grows on a Sloth's back. I clean out my closet and purge all my crap. Not my food. I don't do that anymore. I can't. I'm not allowed. It's minus 500 points in my stupid little game.

God, how pathetic was I to believe that this "game" would make everything better again? I poisoned the meaning of fun with my filthy disease. I am repugnant.

I am the side effect of every drug, whose only intention is to make things better, but whose sole accomplishment is making things worse.
I am the shame of my mother.Her fear. Her worry. Her guilt.
What will happen? What can I do? How did this happen?

I want to be a dog. Crawl under the porch and die alone. Die alone. As fate wrote it out for me in cheap scrawls.

What can you do?
Just leave me be.

PLEASE

If I make it through tomorrow I will be one lucky little shit. Happy Father's Day! I ate ice cream and lunch just for you today. I tried to wrap your present, but the damn FUCKING fat on my stomach won't detach. But, I let it grow just for you, like a big fucking pumpkin.

Happy Father's Day.

I'm going to Crazy Camp.
Have fun with the new baby.
I hope he gives you hell. That way I can blame this all on genetics.

That way people will finally stop caring and paying attention.
That way I can be free.

To be a dog.