Gut Spill

I'll tell you what: on paper, I certainly have all the answers.

See, it's never been about information. It's never been about knowing things and referencing them at will. What it's been about, actually, is implementing that which I already know, and this, my friends, is where I fall short.

So very short.

Why. Why? I ask myself this all the time. Why? I won't bemoan my faults. They are legion and plus most of you know them already. You know how I do so well only to go off the rails on a crazy train. How I consistently fall short. You're probably as frustrated as I am. I'm sorry for that.

My food is dictated by my emotions. If someone hurts me I either starve or I eat. Either way it's a punishment of self; a kind of affirmation of what's been externally laid upon me. It's so much uglier that way, when we do it to ourselves.

Believe me, I know.

I've had a long standing eating disorder. I like to tell people I don't "practice" this eating disorder anymore, mainly because I don't want them to worry. But urges never leave you, not really. I imagine it's the same for an alcoholic or someone who gambles compulsively. Maybe they "practice" restraint, but inwardly they always have that particular Achilles heel. They are always aware of that ever-present skulking shadow of who they could be.

Because they know what they're capable of.

Me too. For real. Me too. I was bulimic for many years. That's hard to say out loud or in print. It's a distasteful condition and I absolutely get that. Mine was different by degree, I suppose: I purged but I did not binge. It was all about austerity. About a kind of punishment, I think. And a kind of control.

I constructed a "box" filled with things I allowed myself to eat --- healthy things, good things, unrealistic things. The only problem was that the box got smaller and smaller, ceaselessly. Soon it was a dot and not a box. Soon no food actually lived within that box, only woe, only judgment. I could eat nothing. Everything I did put into my mouth was a transgression; something I felt deeply. Painfully.

Until I got rid of it.

I'm smart, I'll tell you that right now. I know a lot of you think I'm vain but in actuality I'm not. In fact I'm egregiously demure in a lot of ways, as well as unsure to a fault. However, I know I'm smart. What I'm saying is: I know how to eat. I have all the books. I've done all the research. It's not rocket science, people.

Believe it or not I'm actually passionate (and well educated) about good nutrition. It's just that this information never seems to extend to me. Just other people. I feed them, I make sure they're well. But me?

Starve, bitch.

Pay, bitch.

Why. Why. Why? Don't make me go to my father. Honestly, just don't. I don't want to. God that's dark. It's hard to even sit with, here in this room.

Don't make me go to my mother either, or the hell she went through, the price she paid for simply being alive. Or the evil she did and never acknowledged.

Don't let me go to my brother, please, because to me he is a Man Among Men. The prototype. Don't make me go to him though, to the loneliness, to all that we shared and witnessed together; two children huddled together in the dark. Don't let me go to the abandonment when he left me. Don't make me feel that.

That's why. It's why. Why! I have been to countless therapists. I've ripped open my person; I've spilled out these things to them, each one. Yet none of them have helped. I've charmed the lot of them; I've been such a good girl on that couch. Because I am a good girl, see? I am a good person. I am someone who wants to be the best for all the best reasons.

Still, I'm woefully incapable. They never saw it. They bought into the intellect. They bought into the smile. They thought it meant wellness. They thought it meant I was well!

But I've never been well.

Oh I'm sorry, folks. This will probably be down come morning, because it's all too raw and too disclosing to share. But it's also the damned truth. I like telling the truth, even when it pains me. I figure somebody out there will read it and they'll relate on some level. Maybe we'll commiserate. Maybe that's why I'm here. I wish I knew.

Ok, perhaps in actuality I have no answers, only more questions. I only know that I want to be what I believe I can be. She's such a grand person, this woman I see in my mind. I want to be just like her.

Is there some kind of way?