“Bulimics- weak. Over-exercisers- very weak. Diet pill takers- the weakest. None of them have shit on us. We’re the ones with discipline. We’re the ones with strength. Why? Because we combine all three of them and then add another, stronger component to it. We starve. We are the ones who stare into the refrigerator with sunken eyes and a weak heartbeat, longing to put one morsel into our mouths, even the healthiest of foods, and cannot bring ourselves to consume anything. It’s at that point we punish ourselves for even walking into the kitchen. “Ok, you, stupid weakling,” we say to ourselves. “It’s time to repent.” That means we’ll go even longer without a single bite, take twice the number of pills, and do twice the exercise we normally do, just because we walked into the kitchen and even contemplated eating. Hell, at least the bulimics vomit the food up. The other two actually consume it completely and let it nourish their bodies, even if it’s only temporary. Us, we don’t even swallow, which, to be brutally honest, doesn’t come in handy at some point in life when you’re staring up at the face of a guy eagerly awaiting you to consume him while your knees ache from the pressure of the floor beneath them. But that’s another story altogether; I simply say it to further explain how our road is more difficult, but, oh, the triumph is greater, the results more permanent. Yes, we anorexics have a hard line to tow, but when you can walk into the children’s section of a clothing store and buy a smaller size than a child years younger than you, it’s all worth it.
The only problem is that most of this is subconscious dialogue that many only realize years down the road.
Oh well, we keep going.
Day in, day out we torture our bodies, like a man beating and raping a woman he has chained to the wall. On one hand she loves it, feeling the pain and the rush of it all, and on the other she despises it all, despises him, despises life, but she knows the torture is necessary. The real victory is when you don’t even notice the hunger pangs anymore. Hunger pangs, the mark of an early anorexic, a newbie. In the beginning those pangs are victory bells, and the more you feel them the more you know you are doing something right, but as time goes on, the opposite becomes the win. The less you feel the pain, the less you feel anything, the “happier” you are.
Torture. Yes, it’s part of life for us. It’s the part that keeps us going, and we don’t just punish ourselves with food. No, that would be too easy. By the time we, or anyone with an “eating disorder”, reaches the point of it being a daily routine, our minds have already gone into a dimension that few understand, but the mental torture does not stop there. The psychological problems that were the catalyst for all of this combine with the problems created by a lack of nourishment. Oh, that’s when the fun begins. Subconsciously we make more “poor” decisions, but it’s all part of it. We fuck guys that are bad for us and let them do their worst, we isolate those we used to care about and turn them against us while still keeping a thread between us so they’ll be there if we ever need them, we experiment with drugs and the cruelest of exercise routines, we smile so proudly when we see bones but increase our methods to again punish ourselves for more bones not being visible, and then we put ourselves in positions to be raped or hurt because we believe we deserve it. Yes, we deserve it. We deserve the torture of a guy binding our hands and feet with whatever is around, stripping us and exposing our dying bodies, and then banging us, each thrust of his pelvis slamming into a frail figure while we scream for help but know deep inside we deserve this. As the raping continues we play the victim, and our minds slip into another dimension to endure it and reward ourselves for that. The man pounds harder. Yes, more pain. Another level of reward. Perhaps he’ll beat us too. It’s like gaining gold coins on a video game, each painful moment of treatment brings more gold coins and sends us closer to the next level of the game. The name calling. How dare I forget that?! Slut, bitch, whore, we revel in those names because that increases the psychological torment. As the man fucks harder, and the whirlwind increases we slowly die more and more. But wait, didn’t I say that all this was a good thing? Indeed it is, because getting as close to death as possible is goal, a mark of experience, a true soldier. He finishes and sprays us with cum, leaving his last mark. As we are untied, and the man leaves, we congratulate ourselves for surviving one more task. “
“That’s all I have thus far, Dr. George,” Eden says.
“And what is the point of all of this?”, he asks.
She quickly retorts, “I told you I was a writer, fiction and non-fiction.”
“Aaaand?”, he asks once more.
“And it’s up to the reader to figure out which is which. You see, Doc, life is grey. I thought you’d know that by now. My God, you’re the one with a degree.”, she says.
“Yes, yes, Eden, all part of your therapy, in your mind at least. See you next week. I assume you’ll have more of this so-called story for me?”
“But of course, Doc. The story never really ends.”
“Fine, fine. Tuesday at three.”, he sighs.
Eden gets up from the couch, walks to the door, and pauses before leaving. She gives him a sly wink and says “Hey, Doc, you can’t honestly tell me you don’t enjoy my stories.” Then she disappears out the door.