People Take The Feeling Of Full For

We Turn Skeletons Into Goddesses And Look To Them As If They Might Teach Us How Not To Need.

I Do Not Remember Very Many Things From The Inside Out. I Do Not Remember What It Felt Like To Touch Things, Or How Bathwater Traveled Over My Skin. I Did Not Like To Be Touched, But It Was A Strange Dislike. I Did Not Like To Be Touched Because I Craved It Too Much. I Wanted To Be Held Very Tight So I Would Not Break. Even Now, When People Lean Down To Touch Me, Or Hug Me, Or Put A Hand On My Shoulder, I Hold My Breath. I Turn My Face. I Want To Cry.

I Know How This Feels: The Tightening Of The Chest, The Panic, The What-have-i-done-wait-i-was-kidding. Eating Disorders Linger So Long Undetected, Eroding The Body In Silence, And Then They Strike. The Secret Is Out. You're Dying.

I Either Want To Be Completely Recovered Or Completely Emaciated. It's The In Between That I Can't Stand, The Limbo Of Failure Where You Know That You Haven't Done Your Best At One Or The Other: Dying Or Living.

In Her Presence, I Was Reminded Again Of Why I Was An Anoretic: Fear. Of My Needs, For Food, For Sleep, For Touch, For Simple Conversation, For Human Contact, For Love. I Was An Anoretic Because I Was Afraid Of Being Human. Implicit In Human Contact Is The Exposure Of The Self, The Interaction Of The Selves. The Self I'd Had, Once Upon A Time, Was Too Much. Now There Was No Self At All. I Was A Blank.