[TW]
Down the toilet … literally. It was to be expected. After all, bad things do come in threes.
Today I could not move. Hunger pinned my limbs to the bed and flogged the inside of my skull with each slight movement. It was my third day of solitude, and I felt very alone.
I had to leave the confines of the house: but where to go? To the park. Where I sat and drank water to ease the dizzy spells. It should’ve been vodka. And smoked until I could pretend I’d eaten. And read to pretend I was real.
I always knew I was a sucker for punishing myself – and I thought three days fasting alone would do the trick. But then again, what better punishment than to feel the torture of three days’ hunger, only to feel the anguish of ruining it by opening up your mouth body and filling it with food stuffing so you’re as plump and soft as a teddy bear? To have to walk an hour to a public restroom, because you’re too scared to let anyone at home hear you retching in the corner toilet? To feel like you’ve swallowed cyanide instead of food, to feel it trickle into your system, immediately depositing fat under your skin?
I do not know whether it was the hunger, or the sense of failure; but I sat on a bench by the river and knew that I needed to do something. I need help. My thoughts had turned to suicide fantasies of paracetamol and vodka and calling up the hospital in a smug voice saying “I didn’t mean to do it“. After all, do not actions speak louder than words? If I cannot bring myself to convey the urgency of my state to a doctor, then perhaps it is best to show them. And if they reach me too late … nothing precious is lost.
I am now under the distinct impression that I am the beginnings of a beautiful painting – gone horribly wrong. I cannot shake the want to throw myself out.
By Meredith Nicole
