Sometimes you get the privilege of hauling out the skeletons in your closet and dumping them in a ditch on the side of the road ten years later when you’ve decided it’s finally time for them to go.
Sometimes you don’t.
Sometimes you’re just hanging out having conversations with yourself and then those sets of words that you’ve so desperately avoided for so long get inserted automatically like a teller machine into your brain and your heart drops and you choke for a second and your system misfires and you’re stuck sitting there with this new and old set of thoughts.
“Look at you, you’re getting fat.”
“Thats disgusting. I mean.. seriously, thats disgusting.”
“Do you really think you’re beautiful? What a joke.”
It reminds me of times when I used to practice skipping down the sidewalk on my street as fast as I could, and kept picking up the pace until I was half running/half skipping wildly trying to keep my balance as the pavement got farther away from my tennies and it became a race between my head and my shoes as to which one could keep up before the other faltered and I ended up splattered on the cement between the neighbors 72 Nova and our blue Volkswagon van.
Sometimes you skip too fast and one part of your body can’t keep up with the other and you end up like that.. bam. Face down with one twisted ankle and one more rip in your jeans and you loved the skipping for a minute but now it hurts.
Sometimes you just skip too fast and it all catches up to you.
This is how I feel about anorexia.
I have always said that one doesn’t fight anorexia. One invites it in.
Like the guest at a party that nobody really knows who shows up to the door, best dressed with expensive presents and a bottle of Silver Oak, perfectly parted hair, the sexiest black dress, and a smile that says,
“Honey baby, you can’t be me, but you can try.”
And you say,
“Oh wow. That looks good.”
And in the months to come your new best friend shows up at untimely hours of the day and night with irrational demands that you feel the need to fulfill because damn. ..
She looks good.
And this time you skip down the sidewalk together holding hands but she squeezes really tight and it’s uncomfortable for your fingers and she runs just ever so slightly faster than you so you can’t quite keep up and when you start losing control and you’re wildly skipping and running and the cement gets farther and farther away from your tennies and your brainwaves start firing out warning instructions to slow down because skipping fast comes before a fall and you’re aware of the fact that she runs faster than you but you didn’t think it would be so hard to catch up and then as you start faltering and stumbling you first reaction is to grip her hand tighter but right as the moment arrives where you either catch yourself or hit the pavement you look up with frightened eyes and she’s looking right back at you and instead of pulling you up
she grabs the back of your head and she pushes you down.
And you slam right into the unforgiving ground, face first and skid awkwardly to a halt, where you lie for a while, a little bloody, and little shredded, a little this or that.
And you just lie there, disoriented, staring at the clouds making shapes above you.
And then you hear, very close next to you, very close in your ear,
“Come on sweetie. I know you can skip faster than that.”