Emotional Non-Eater

Well, yesterday was a mental clusterfuck. I am a girl, there are certain things I should be emotional about, cute movies, kittens, puppies, babies… Not bread. I should not cry over fucking bread….. 

I realized that last year I at least had the energy to keep up with my kids at work (well, students, but they are my kids). I barely have the energy for that. I sat down, about ten sets of eyeballs all staring at me as I opened up “The BFG” and began reading to them. My voice horse and crackely from all of the purging, I finally had to give up and quit reading because the strain was too much. 

All I wanted was to go home and have a piece of Ezekiel bread. I hadn’t eaten, that was the one thing I craved for and wanted. After running in between classes and going to work I was so worn out. My legs still achy from the leg cramps and I was getting a headache.

I walked in the door and the smell of food was nauseating. All I wanted was a damn piece of bread. I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and began moving stuff.

“It has to be here. I know I had at least three pieces left.”

My hands fumbled through the fridge a little quicker moving anything and everything in my way.

“Shit, where is it?!”

I was looking everywhere, hell I even looked on the fridge door. It wasn’t there.

I finally gave up, slamming drawers, slamming the fridge door. Cussing and being pissed off, both to myself and out loud for the whole damn house to hear.

Who the fuck ate my fucking Ezekiel bread?!?! It isn’t even tasty! Maybe if I was hoarding Oreos, then yeah, it would be understandable. I went in my room, still cursing and slammed my door shut. I texted my best friend from my room,

“I have one thing that I actually fucking eat, and someone either eats it or throws it away. What the Ever-Loving Fuck?!?!”

It just went down hill from there, I began to cry because, well, fuck it. Maybe it was a sign I didn’t need to eat. I tried to vent to my potential boyfriend. He responded with, “Well, I wish you would eat more, but that is another story.”

“Don’t you fucking dare lecture me about my eating!!”

I messaged my mom, saying pretty much the same thing, “I hate when I have one fucking thing I eat, and it gets thrown away or eaten.”

She responded, “I understand, I don’t even like it when people look at my food.”

“Exactly!!! Don’t comment on my food, don’t look at my food, and God help you if you touch my food!”




My Dear Legs,

My Dear Legs,

I have put you through so much; miles upon miles, stairs, squats, presses. I have abused and neglected you. Not feeding you the proper nutrients you need to keep the miles rolling. My legs, you have carried me to and from work, the gym, school, and so on. Thank you, for keeping me going as long as you have. I know we have had some rough times, being on crutches, the leg cramps, the injections, etc, but so far you have never given up completely on me and I appreciate that. 

At any moment I believe my legs are just going to give out on me. They are just going to collapse and cave in under me for good. 

Do you know the feeling  of squatting your body weight with the bench press bar and barely being able to put that bar up securely before your legs give out?

Do you know what its like to walk all around campus, your legs trembling beneath you, unsure if you can even make it to class?

Or standing in the shower as your knees begin to knock together?

Laying in bed when all of a sudden your leg tightens up and can’t even move because the cramp is so bad shooting through your leg and foot. The pain so unbearable as you forcefully attempt to straighten your toes and rub the pain out of your calf.  The stairs were nothing to me, just another thing on a daily basis. Now, I look at every flight of stairs, wondering if this will be the one that makes my legs surrender. 

It isn’t the weight of my body that makes my legs want to collapse and give in; it is the weight of everything on my shoulders.

I had to text my roommate the other night. The leg cramps are getting worse. I can usually rub them out, flex my legs, something. I hunched over, rubbing my calf to let the pain stop, but with little avail. My toes curled and I was unable to straighten them without prying them straight with my fingers. I texted my roommate who came running in my room.

The Positive Side of My Eating Disorder

I’m a science major who prefers math over chemistry any day… go figure.

Anyway, I want to talk about what is known as a “positive correlation”.

It seems that as I have gotten further





f  u  r  t  h  e  r

into not only college, but into my ED, there is a correlation.

As my weight goes down… ↓

so do my grades. ↓

I Just Kinda Fucked Myself Over Didn’t I?

Attempting to lace up my shoes for a race when I can barely stand. 

I felt awful and called out of work. I showered because I was so cold, but could barely stand. 

I spent a good half hour wrapped in my towel on the floor, trying to find shorts and a shirt for the run. 

After I was dressed I made my way to the car and headed out. 

For those of you that don’t know, I have been looking into residential places lately for my eating disorder. Everything in me screams, “Don’t do it!!” “You aren’t sick!” “C is just trying to use a fear tactic.” “You aren’t 90 lbs and emaciated, you are fine!”  Another part of me realizes what I am doing isn’t healthy, whether I am 90 or 490 lbs.

Well, my therapist seems to have some radar that just knows when to email/text/call me. There was a few times that she caught me at either the right, or wrong, time:

1. I was in the bathroom throwing up when I got her email on my phone.

2. I had taken laxatives and was literally running out of class to use the bathroom when I got her text.

3. Headed on a run when I got another email.

4. Popping diet pills as she was calling me.

So, anyway, here I was, had made it to the race. After feeling like shit all day. I hadn’t eaten in days, I could barely stand, my head was spinning, so lethargic. I had just gotten my packet pick up with my bib and all of that when my pocket started to buzz. The first thing to go through my head, besides the throbbing from my headache, was “It’s Saturday, who in the hell is call me?!” As I finally grabbed my phone and was looking at the number I had missed the call….

…. I got on Google to see where/who/what they wanted, and if the number would pop up. As I was typing it in my phone started buzzing again.  

Without thinking, I answer it. 

Hello, this is Joe Schmo with XYZ, calling for Susie Q….

I can barely hear anything at this point, my head is throbbing, my legs are ready to give out, I’m not sure if I am going to shit myself or throw up, and of course the damn band for the race had decided right then that me answering my phone was their cue to start jamming out….

“I’m sorry, give me one second, I can barely hear you.”

That’s fine, take your time.

“Ok, now who are you?”


After a few minutes (I swear I wasn’t drunk/high/etc I was so out of it from feeling awful and not eating in days I was so groggy) everything clicked. “Oh God, he is calling about ED related bull shit.” I thought to myself. 

He got information, asked general bull shit questions. 

So, tell me about your struggles, so I can help find a facility that can help. Like if you struggle with anorexia, compared to binge eating.

“Um, sir, I am at a race right now, I can’t really, uhhh, work out a lot, eat very little.”

Hmmm, a race? are you running in it or cheering someone on? *I could feel his wheels turning*

How much do you work out?

“I don’t know, I try to run anywhere from 5-7 miles.”

The conversation went on like this for quite a while until I reached my car.

What kind of treatment were you thinking about looking into?

“Honestly, I don’t know. Apparently outpatient wasn’t the smartest because of driving over an hour there on little food.”

Ok, well if you struggle with anorexia, but have a BMI of under X, then we would have to see if you were even healthy enough for some places. 

“Yes to the first part, but I run and work out so much, no to the under X.”

So anyway… talk about timing huh? I have a race that is starting in a half hour and here I am on the phone with some dude trying to get me into treatment. It was kind of surreal. I still see myself as fat. Boobs, stomach, thighs (a couple people think that is mainly the dysmorphia), but to talk to a complete stranger about my habits, and have him say, 

“Given just the little bit of information you gave me, the knowledge and experience from being here, your intake, exercise and so on, you would fit the criteria for residential.” 

Well, fuck me…..

Yay, and fuck. I’m not sure what I want. The ED is screaming, I am ready to cry, my best friend is happy and nervous for me, one other person keeps saying, “School and work won’t matter if you are DEAD.” and I refuse to tell my mother because she will probably say the same things the ED is screaming. 

8 Meter Laxative Dash

I feel awful. It’s a mixture of a few things. Nerves, and different aspects of the eating disorder.
Nerves because of school and looking into residential places for help. Those two things stress me out beyond belief.
The eating disorder, because if anything, I’ve gotten worse, not better.
My best friend and I had a good long talk about residential, outpatient, me, food. It was enjoyable to have someone to talk to. She doesn’t understand and doesn’t know how to help me, but at least having someone there to listen is nice.
So, it’s almost 4:26 in the morning, I can’t sleep, and I feel awful. Afraid to move to fast and set off a chain reaction of laxative abuse in my body.
The thought of food right now makes me sick.
Going away to a place for help sounds scary because I fear I will be the…oh God do I dare say it…fattest, fattest one there.
I woke up, the familiar gurgle in my stomach from taking laxatives. I went to stand up to head to the bathroom and realized how dizzy I was, and shaking. You would think this would scare me, but it doesn’t. Unfortunately.
It took me a good 8-10 sec to get my balance back well enough to be able to walk to the bathroom.
I’m freezing, I’m shaking, I’m killed over in laxative pain, and I’ve been taking diet pills on top of this (which I think is responsible for the shaking). Making the dizzy dash to the bathroom. Hah, dizzy dash. There isn’t even anything in my system 😒 On top of that, the pants I wore are “too big” says C the other day, and I’m tripping over them and trying to pull them up between gathering energy, balance, my vision and weaving like a drunk down the hallway to the bathroom.
I ate an orange yesterday and air popped popcorn.
Day before that? Like 8 almonds.
How the Fuck am I still functioning so well?!
Nobody, well now besides you guys, know about the diet pills. The rational side of me knows this is no good, plus with the throwing up, and laxatives. My body must be as damn stubborn as I am.
Lord, I cannot wait for an “oh shit” moment…. Something has to give.
My body isn’t gonna give in, I’m slightly jealous of the people with physical, medical issues because they go 2 days without eating…you lucky bastards.
It’s almost 5 now. I’m so damn cold
While looking into places I saw Castlewood, which looks really nice. I watched a video about it and the nutritionists were talking. They showed food being prepared and I almost lost it. Salad, some rice type food, cauliflower, possibly mashed potatoes, and something that looks fried. Omg I started to cry. The mere thought of going to these places and having to eat something other than my “safe foods” is scary as shit. I can’t eat that shit.
Ugh so stressed. And I have a race today. I guess laxatives weren’t a good decision.

There Is A Good Chance I Didn’t Eat

I had almost like a realization today. 
I spend a lot of my time sassing people and telling them, “I EAT!” “I DO EAT!” “I ATE!” 
Something like eating should go without saying.
If I have to say it, stress it, reiterate it so many times during the day to make a point, then chances are, I probably am not eating. 
If it is to the point that the people around me during the day have to make a point to say something, then I’m probably not eating.
If my boss has to check and see if I ate, I probably am not eating. 
My potential boyfriend messages me after the gym to see if I ate. 
He pushes food on me, she pushes food on me, they want me to eat.
All of these people don’t see me eat. 
Yet, I will swear and stand by the fact, “I did eat! I do eat!” 
Smokers don’t have to tell you they smoke, you know.
My sister doesn’t have to tell me she showered, I just know.
An alcoholic doesn’t have to tell you they are sober, you know. 
If I have to reiterate the fact that “I ate!” When these people have been around me all day.
There is a good chance that I didn’t eat. 


What Recovery Tastes Like

I feel very lonely here. I’ve been in a treatment setting since December so I’ve been around people with eating disorders for so long. The more I am here the more I am realizing that I am part of the 1% of people. Most of my peers have never starved, purged or binged in their whole life and cannot relate to me. 

I am trying to find who I am in recovery and it’s hard to do that with a small handful of friends. I have my eating disorder and missing a semester to blame on that one. The friends I lost because of isolation and the friends that live off campus makes me alone a majority of the time. It’s thrilling. I know this is distorted but with my eating disorder, at least I had a purpose and someone/thing that was always there. Like I planned my days out…

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I AM HEALTHY… and done fighting.

Today when I left my appointment I felt stressed, discouraged, frazzled, and just pretty done.
Even my little brother, well, I can’t even call him that. My younger brother, he is 13 and is taller than I am by a lot and weighs about the same as me. He could tell I was upset when I was leaving today. He asked why I was crying, I wasn’t, I was just rubbing my face. He didn’t know where we were, or what I was doing; he stayed outside, listening to music. In all honesty seeing my brother so concerned about me and defensive made me feel like I was important. “What the hell happened in there? Are you ok?” I was waiting for the words “Who’s ass do I have to kick..” bc I could feel it coming.
I honestly feel like recovery isn’t for me.
I’m not saying I want to die. I’m just kind of done.
Done fighting, done exerting energy I don’t have. Just over it all.
I felt very discouraged today. My relationships are fucked up. I am very apathetic. I am the healthiest/fattest/laziest/ etc person ever with an eating disorder.
Yes, C, yes. I would love to go into treatment. Almost have to want to give a damn about getting better. Be forced to do things that will help me to get better. I cannot miss work, I cannot miss that much school. I don’t have that kind of money to just piss away.
I’ve kinda just become accepting and half-ass with everything. I’ve given up and in. C wanted to talk to my doctor… fine, give me the damn paper to sign. Want to talk to my best friend? Fine, I’ll give you the number, I’ve become almost passive, just trying to placate her and the eating disorder. I’ve become a hollow vessel full of nothing but self hatred. In my hand during my appointment was my coffee cup. If you would have looked closer you would have seen the picture of my sister and I on the side of it. Our fingers laced crossing the finish line of one of our runs. I almost began to cry as I saw her beautiful face while talking about inpatient. Yes, I would love to go into treatment and get better, because this is not living, and I would never want to leave my sister.
Being told I have to make a doctor appointment was irritating. I hate doctors, I spent weeks upon weeks having at least one doctor appointment a week. I’m not sure what you want to hear. My blood work has came back almost perfect every time. My weight? pretty fat. I AM HEALTHY.


I squat over 100 lbs with the bench press bar.
I leg press more than twice my body.
I run miles on miles on top of miles.
I dead lift.
Clean and Jerk.
I am the healthiest person with an eating disorder ever.
Being told I need to go to the doctor just felt like I wasn’t believable.
Trust me, I have wished, hoped, PRAYED that something would be funky, wrong, bad. That my esophagus would rupture.. ANYTHING. It hasn’t happened… because I am unfortunately FUCKING HEALTHY.
I’m done fighting for something that has no importance to me… me.

Ode to Bony Keys

My hands run along the pieces.
Wishing to be frail and delicate.
A painter with a brush slowly exploring the canvas.
Like a pianist on his instrument.
My fingers count the keys, slowly moving up in sync with my breaths.image
These keys, neither black nor white, nothing in life ever is.
As the pianist’s fingers move up the keys the sound becomes more beautiful.
With each protruding rib my excitement grows, hoping to become such beauty.
My fingers latch onto my collarbone like I’m rock climbing.
Using my own collarbone like a bar I’m pulling myself onto.
Something, anything to help support the weight.
The weight of my dinner as it sticks to my sides.
The weight of the guilt as my little sister consumes more than I do.
The weight of my stomach filling mainly with water.

Never Enough

I remember the conversation like it was yesterday. Someone was telling me that the amount I work out was “excessive”. I told her that it was only 3 miles, if it was 5 or something then maybe it would be excessive. Then it became 5 miles, “It’s only 5 miles, if it was 7 or something then maybe.” Now it’s become 7 miles.
The voice has became increasingly worse. “You aren’t thin enough to have an eating disorder.” “You aren’t sick enough.” “You are too fat.”, It goes on and on… louder and louder.
I am struggling so bad to not cancel my appointment for this week. I don’t see me as sick, or this a problem. I wish I was 90 lbs, emaciated, tiny, etc. Even if I was 90 I would just want to be smaller.
Slowly becoming nothing but air and bones. A pile of what used to be me. I want to just slowly become nothing, disappearing underneath the layers of clothes.
C asked me a couple weeks ago how much I weighed. When I told her she said that I looked like I wanted to kill someone. To be honest I was just trying to read her expression, trying to judge if I had lost weight, trying to measure her reaction.
Ideally, I want to cancel my appointment, keep going to school, and not do anything. I keep telling myself that if I pass out and end up in the hospital I’ll do something then. No I won’t, I’d just use the excuse “You are still too fat and it was only once.”
It will never be enough.
My best friend was going to go to my appointment with me, but now I’m not sure. She doesn’t understand, she doesn’t get it. I don’t expect her to, and am thankful she doesn’t. It takes everything in me not to just scream, “I HAVENT EATEN ANYTHING IN THREE DAYS!” Yes, I eat. Today it was coffee and a handful of almonds. If I hadn’t been sitting in class I probably would have thrown that up too. I either don’t eat, which starts a snowball effect and lasts anywhere from days to about two weeks. Or, as usual, I throw up. I can’t remember the last time I went a single day without sticking my fingers down my throat. 
Giving up sounds so tempting. Not like anything bad is going to happen to me anyway, I’m not that lucky.
Even with lifting weights, my logic is “My body eats muscle before fat. If I can turn this part of my body into muscle I may gain a little weight, but then hopefully my body will eat the muscle and I’ll become small.”
Never enough.
Never tiny enough.
Never sick enough.
Never enough miles.
Never enough purging.
Never enough starving.
Never thin enough.