I told Wade how much I miss eating like my growing teenage self. I told him I’d risk all the frightening unknowns about being on a cannabinoid, even long-term, if it would help me gain to a healthy 95-100 pounds. That this life is not worth it if I have to live it starving. Which I am. Starving. Malnourished. Not on purpose. So completely a result of the abuses to my body. This bonsai-tree self is inadequate. I am dried-up, though not yet old before my time. I have hips, at least, but no breasts, and gray! Already! Gray bits of eyebrow.
I have this thing — thinness — that so many people try to die in order to achieve, and I want to throw it away because I want to feel real. I want to be able to buy clothes without hating myself. I want breasts. I know I’m lovely when I fake them up, and I know I’m lovely without, but some part of me wants breasts that weigh something. I want more time in this hourglass.
They say that after you lose weight, your body will make you hungry again. Why did mine stop feeling hunger? Most people in recovery eat on their missing pounds. Why couldn’t I, except on Remeron? What’s different here? Why can science offer me nothing?
. . .
I feel rather like a horse tethered to a wheel, flogged as I trudge in circles trying to live up to my owners’ expectations. Make of it what you will.