It was in my mouth sweet as honey:
and as soon as I had eaten it,
my belly was bitter.
Revelation ch.10, v.10
I never thought it'd get like this.
I mean, I watched Cassie descend in to this, a strange form of madness. Only it wasn't quite like this. She was stronger. Much stronger. I see it and it's in me, festering in my gut, in my mouth as sweet as honey: as soon as I had eaten it, my belly was bitter.
I can't help it. I pray to the same god each night. The same sick, sadistic god. It never lets me free. I once gave it a name, but I hate it so much now that nothing can give it a name except for HATE.
Because I do hate it. More than anything.
It controls me.
At first I though I was in control.
Look at me, I don't have to eat this, my hips are at such an angle, you can count my ribs, Hell, count my vertebrae. It won't make much difference, even now.
I was once anorexic.
Most people thought that I didn't talk, but it was deeper than that. I didn't eat. I went for eight weeks with no substance. I was like a child. And it was fabulous. I was the purest I could be. Perfect. I could do anything, be anything.
But one day I thought... NO. I won't do this. I want to eat salmon with my family, have a roast chicken on a Sunday, munch on pasta. And I ate.
Oh god, I ate. I gorged myself on everything that was bad, everything that was fattening. You really have no idea. At first it was liberating. But then... It was terrible. I was fat. In only two weeks I had gone up a whole dress size and it was bad. Bad isn't even the word, because it was worse than that. There are no words to describe that feeling. I was a size ten, up from a size six and then a size eight.
I was fat. Double figures. I was disgusting.
So I started.
It's worse than anorexia. Because you don't have to eat, you have control... But after that there is no control. When you are bent double over to Porcelain God, there is no control, nothing you can do.
You won't be the same as me, everyone is unique.
I had a Chinese with my mum tonight, I ate a whole curry and rice to myself, with a Beef Chow Mien. I feel disgusting, sickening. I am above the Porcelain God now, my fingers in my throat, my knuckles bruised and bleeding. I try my hardest, and I can usually hide my knuckles and the damage. It's six in the morning, and I've been before the bowl for an hour. Nothing more will come out, but I will hope it will, desperately. I need it to come up. The rice, the onions, this chicken, the beef, the noodles, the curry... I am weak at the knees thinking of it, how horrible it all is.
The back of my throat is sore, scratched from my nails and scorched from smoking. It's a bad life to live. Not really a life at all.
You aren't in control. It's the same every time.
"I can keep it down, I am in control."
No you're not, you're lying to youserlf.