Addicted, Always. in Always Recovering, Never Recovered.

And this, here, is the flaw in me. The crack always there below the surface, soul-deep, painted over, boarded up, ignored but never fixed.

I haven’t felt so sick in ages. Hot, sweating, frozen, shivering. I look awful and I know it, even through a full face of makeup my boss took one look at me and sent me home. Everything aches, and I’ve thrown up everything I’ve eaten for three days.

And this, here, is the problem, because three days is enough. Enough to make a difference.

The concave bowl of a completely empty stomach, falling away under my ribcage, the protruding hip bones, the little things. Old friends. I can’t stop running my fingers over the starved ladder-ridges of my ribs, can’t stop laying my palm flat over my midriff to feel the pure cleanliness of only emptiness inside me. I feel terrible… but I feel euphoric. I love it, I still love it.

Years, now, since I chose to live instead. Years of piecing myself back together like shards of shattered glass, years of looking at swathes of rolling white fat across my thighs in the mirror and telling myself that it’s normal, and that normal is ok. And still, this is all it takes.

One fleeting echo of my former self and I’m right back there, like nothing ever changed. I can tell myself all I want that healthy can be beautiful, but underneath it all the cracks are too deep… I don’t want to be healthy or beautiful, I want to look shocking, I want to look wrong. I don’t want to be thin, I want to be too thin, fragile, invisible.

It’s an addiction, and however far I’ve come,

I’ll always be an addict.

Last updated October 24, 2014