Even if it feels like it’s not okay. Just now, I cried. I cried because I feel fat.
Silly, I know.
Shallow, I know.
But it’s still okay to cry.
Before everyone who knows me that may or may not be reading this tells me I’m wrong and I’m not fat, it’s not about BEING a certain size. It’s about feeling happy in my own skin. And I don’t.
I used to be skinnier than I am now.
One of the painkillers they put me on makes me hungry ALL OF THE TIME. As in there is never a moment when I don’t crave food. Another one of my painkillers can only be taken if I’ve eaten a certain amount of food. Another one stops the crazy amount of food I eat making me feel ill.
So, unsur-effing-prisingly it’s made me put on a substantial amount of weight.
I can’t stand the sight of myself. I feel violated by these drugs I HAVE to take. The ones that make my life bearable. Their poison has filled my system.
I cry when I eat sometimes. The terrible knowledge that the only reason I’m eating is those evil white pills make me unaccountably depressed, and I crave comfort from the food I eat. I sob as I eat an entire tray of cookies, I get hysterical as I bake massive batches of cupcakes. I love cooking, I really do. But I’m losing the will to live, let alone enjoy life. I feel like an overblown balloon. My body feels like an alien. I want my own skin back.
It’s not stupid, I’m not being ridiculous. I would never tell another girl who weighed what I weigh fat. But I LIKED being lighter. I felt more like myself. Now when my body is barely under my control with dizzy spells, leg/back/knee spasms, compulsive eating and random emotions surging through my body, I feel like I am not myself. Just a spectator. People are often surprised by me, but what they don’t realise is half the time I’m surprised too. If it wasn’t for my family and friends, I’d lock myself in a room with a lot of whiskey and drink myself to an early death. I want to feel alive again. And it’s okay to cry. It’s always okay to cry.
I’m on the edge of tears as I type this. Just now, I splashed boiling water all up my right arm. I just stared blankly as the pain burned and spread an ugly red mark up my arm. I didn’t react. This isn’t my body after all, how can it be?
I need care 24/7 these days. The girl I used to be was so independent and free and wild. But that something inside me that used to drive me feels like it has died, and I will never be free again.
Debbimouse, over and out.
p.s. sorry for all the depressiveness internet.