diet. health. eating restriction.
We have a leaky roof but that is not what cruises through my mind. I step onto the scale and am disappointed. How did I lose four pounds overnight? It must be the digested food. Yes. That is my fucking first thought. My weight and then comes the fight with the food.
Being on a strict diet is shitty. I would love to eat everything but when your stomach swells up because you ingested something it doesn’t like, that’s the pain I don’t want to wish on anyone.
So, I love to eat everything, but I can’t and because of that I don’t get enough calories for the day, so I lose weight. I hate losing weight. I’m already skin and bones. I can’t afford another four pounds of loss.
Although, as the matter of fact I will gain those pounds back as soon as I have breakfast. But my heart sinks every time I look at the scale.
I step off the scale and torture myself with the thoughts of breakfast. What can I possibly make? Some fruits? A salad? Eggs? But no waffles and all those sweets. No tea or coffee. Plain sugarless water. Juice is not even allowed.
I feel dizzy digesting all my misfortune. Or maybe it’s my anxiety acting up. Depression settles in and the thought that I should have not woken up seems somewhat fitting.
Food is a state of mind.
Well-being is a state of mind.
Bullshit, when you constantly feel hungry or sick.
But, I’m obsessing. I can’t count my food intake anymore—the calories. I just want to eat a burger with fries. Sip the coke through the straw and be carefree.
I feel ugly inside and out. The feeling of seeing myself ugly sets me further into depression. The hole that fills with my rotting body.
All the joy of life is pulled out of me. So, I stare at the clock on the oven adding another minute to its state. Another minute was taken away from my life.
I should fall to the floor and sob but I’m not that dramatic.
Mental pain. Physical pain. I hope it all fades away soon. I wish I will fade away soon. Darkness. The prick of darkness. How welcoming it sounds this morning.
I pour the distilled water into my cup and recite a little prayer. “God have mercy,” I softly mutter and stumble a smidge. The glass tips enough to spill a drop or two of the translucent liquid. A glimmer from the sun engulfs me and the dizzy spell pulls me down to my knees. Few more drops of water spill, but I hold the glass tighter than before. I will not let the fragile material break even if it cuts into my flesh.
I’m not normal. Slip of a tongue. There is no such thing as normal. I know. My therapist says, “that is not the way to describe the world, in categories of normal and abnormal.” I hate her. She disgusts me.
As I lie on the bitter floor, I wonder about all the possibilities of the end. If only I could close my eyes and wake up to a different reality. If it was only possible to conjure such a thing. Reprogram the world around me like software, a computer world with the clicks of a few buttons. Simple.
But no. Reality is harsh and shitty.
“God have mercy, and let me die now.” But of course, my prayers come unanswered. I strip myself off the floor taking longer than I would like to admit.
Hungry. Hunger comes in a form of stomach rumbles. The waves in my gut and I melt into the refrigerator door. Metal and flesh becoming one. The cold hits me with fierce clamor. The noise that mutes the dishes in the sink, the unmastered attempt at sweeping the floor, the chaos of life outside the walls and windows. And here I stay fused with the metal and the cold staring at the sandwich prepped the night before. Ham and mayo between two slices of whole-grain bread. Tasty and disgusting, all at once; but I grab the plate and set it on the table. No more staring but full-fledge devouring of the meal. A full gulp of cold milk, all straight out of the carton.
Fuck the pain. Fuck the worries.
© Jacob Greb — 2022
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