Heroin Chic

I was told today that I look like a heroin addict. Because my cheeks are sunken and my hands are bony, they said. They’re worried somebody is going to look at me and think they can take advantage of me and my “addiction”.

I can’t stop losing weight. I don’t really know why anymore. I can’t tell if I have any control over it.

I feel like if I really, truly wanted to gain weight, I could do it. It’s easy, isn’t it? You just eat. Eat a lot of food. I bet I could do that. But then why don’t I? I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.

Some of it is wanting to look a certain way, sure, but it’s evolved into something beyond all that. It’s a lifestyle, an obsession, a compulsion. It’s not a choice, most of the time. It just doesn’t occur to me anymore that I should be eating something.

But then when it does occur to me, my automatic instinct is to think no, I’m not hungry. Or no, I don’t need to eat right now. No, I bet I could last a little longer. No, I’ll feel better if I don’t. No, I bet you could fight through the hunger and win. And that win gives me a tight little shiver inside.

I don’t want to go back to the hospital. Correction, I won’t go back. They can’t make me. But I don’t want it to come to that. I don’t want to be non-compliant. I want to show that I’m trying, even though it’s just in little ways right now.

I bet when I have two jobs and go to school I’ll be too busy and too proud of myself to keep this up. I bet I’ll eat when I’m hungry and my body will fill back out and maybe I won’t like it really but I will care about other things so much more that I won’t have to do anything about it.

I don’t want to look like a junkie. I want to look pretty. I’m ruining myself, and I know it, but I don’t know how to stop.

Somebody save me from this runaway train.


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