Sometimes feeling full is a nicer feeling than anything else that’s currently an option.
My stomach hurts. It hurts because, once again, I’ve eaten too much. Purposefully. Deliberately. I deliberately shoved food in my face far beyond what my body needed or even what I enjoyed. I kept going. I moved hand to mouth over, and over, and over again until all the food was gone.
Why did I do it? So that I would feel like this. So I would have the feelings I do right now. These feelings of shame, of physical pain, of self-loathing and disgust right now have a very definite cause. I know where they come from. I just ate too much, just now, just a minute ago. I did it on purpose.
It’s better to know where the feelings come from than have the root cause be a mystery. It’s better to understand why I’m in pain, why everything hurts so much emotionally and physically than to go through each day feeling it and not knowing why and feeling even worse because there’s no real cause so why won’t it just go away?
Better to do it on purpose. Better to cause it and feel in control of it than feel as though it’s controlling me. Makes more sense that way. Is easier to understand.
And then comes the fat. The larger body size. The gas. The bloating. And the fat. The self-loathing for that comes on, too. It’s always there. If it went away I wouldn’t know what do to with myself. It would be awkward. I would miss it. So I keep eating.
Similarly, I keep spending. Feeling comfortable and in control isn’t in my nature. It’s too much. It’s something I don’t feel I’m worthy of. But overspending, overeating, treating myself horribly, doing things to ensure that I’ll never be happy… that, that I’m good at. I can keep doing that. I have those skills. I’m good at that.
There’s a pride in it, you see. I’m able to manage those tasks. I’m able to keep myself fat, and poor, and in a constant state of self-disgust. That’s just easy for me. I’m quite fabulous at it.
I won’t change. I don’t want to. Not deep down inside. I might think I want to, I might think I long for a different life, but I know I’ll never actually have it and I’m happier that way. Why bother, right? Why try? It’s never going to happen. The failure will just be one more way in which I can hate myself.
I wish I could say it hadn’t always been like this but I don’t remember any time when it wasn’t. I was always this good at treating myself terribly. I always wanted to eat so much it made me feel ill. And then I’d want to do it again. I always wanted to hate myself, regardless of what others said of me. I always wanted to compare myself to others and find myself wanting. It’s what I do. It’s what I live for.
There were brief periods of time when I got myself in shape. I was thin, therefore, worthy. People were nicer to me and I hated them for it. People who hadn’t treated me well when I was larger suddenly had respect for me. I saw through it. I knew I should be hated and I hated them in turn.
That’s another secret. I hate most everyone. I see through their kindness and pleasantries. I see their genuine love for me and I feel bad for them that they are stupid enough to care for me. I know I’m not worth it and the only reason I can see for them to think otherwise is below average intelligence. I pity them. I accept their love and do my best to love them in return, but it isn’t real. It can’t be. I’m not really there.
I’m there, though. That’s not what I mean. It’s more that I’m not a whole person. I’m not a real being. I’m just a thing, a blob, a shell of a person with nothing inside except ability to feel hurt and pain. I’ve created a fantastic facade and to a large extent, I probably appear otherwise. I might appear as a whole, full, vibrant person. But the person they think they know and love doesn’t actually exist. With a whisper of smoke, I could be gone. One good gust of wind would dissolve it all.
I shatter to pieces constantly and there’s nothing left of me but the space between the cracks. I feel the wind blowing straight through me and it targets all the empty places where something is supposed to be.
I don’t know what is supposed to be there. Some feeling of wholeness, of sureness of self, of security. I lack it all. It isn’t there and that’s why I’ll never be fully there either. I’m just empty, doing all I can to hold all the shattered pieces together and keep on keeping on with work, sleep, food, and so on.
Except when I eat. When I eat, I am a human. When I shovel food into my face there’s no denying that I exist. I feel the food smash between my teeth, I feel the texture of it on my gums and my tongue. The flavors hit every part of my mouth and the sensations are glorious. Even if the food isn’t very good, it’s glorious. It’s a feeling, a feeling other than emptiness, for just a few moments. It’s gone too quickly. So, I keep eating. I keep taking just one more mouthful. I keep swallowing and I keep reaching for more.
Until it’s gone and I have to face the world outside of my meals again. And then I feel gross. But at least then I know where the feelings are from. At least I know I’m feeling horrible because I ate. At least I know.