Dazzling, darling.

After I eat, I feel sick. I feel sick to my stomach, sick at myself, sick at the calories my body is absorbing. I feel anxious. I panic at the thought of my stomach expanding, my feelings of fullness. I feel weak. I feel weak of mind and spirit, weak from food weighing me down, making me lethargic.

I enjoy the feeling of hunger. Not the painful, stomach in a knot, I want to eat my hand I'm so hungry hunger. I enjoy the light growl in the tummy, the tunnel vision and lightheadedness when I stand up, the punch-drunk high on the addiction to nothing hunger.

I resent having to eat more because I'm around my parents. I resent them watching me eat, asking what I've eaten, commenting on the food still left on my plate. I didn't want that slice of the cake my mom asked me to bake, but I didn't want her to suspect anything if I refused to even taste the fruits of my labor.

My belly is full of food right now, and I'm freaking out. I don't like it. I can't handle it. I want it out out out. But I won't let myself throw up. It's not worth the damage to my body, not worth the risk of discovery.

I want to be a different person. Je voudrais être française, living in southern France on wine and teeny-tiny bites of cheese. I want to be an adult, not in this limbo of my parents' child transitioning to an independent woman. I don't want to hate myself for every little flaw I see.

Et alors, I must accept that which I cannot change, and have the will to change what I can. Or something.

xoxo Cara

Être maigre est être eblouissant,
sans effort.