Dear...

Dear Eating Disorder,

You're a whore.  You're a whore and I hate you for making me want to die if I gain even half a pound.  I hate you for making me constantly suck in my stomach and pinch the side of my waist to make sure I can still fit the entire palm of my hand around my front and back.  I hate you for making all of my pants slip off my body because they're so loose even a belt doesn't hold them up anymore.  And I hate you for, in the past couple months alone, having me sent home from work numerous times because I had actually allowed myself to eat something that morning and felt like I was going to throw up.  

I'm not sure when you started.  I don't remember you coming around much in high school, which would explain why when I look back now of pictures of me then, I think, "What a fat ass".  I don't even think you bothered me that much my freshman year of college when I gained a nice freshman 25.  I vaguely remember being conscious of you the next year, but it wasn't until February of my junior year, when everything was happening, everything that will surely be discussed in another letter, that I spent a solid two weeks eating nothing but half a diet bar a day.  And even then, I would eat it at night so any weight it put on my body would be gone by morning.  Eating Disorder, you made me so tired, so weak, so miserable.  To the point where I went to two of the girls I lived with and asked them to make sure I eat.  Which they did.  So fuck you Eating Disorder.

The next time you came around was that following summer.  When I became obsessed with running, for hours at a time.  I would run in the morning, come home, do a zillion crunches, and then go for another run each time I ate something.  Even if I just had a handful of chips, out came the iPod and sneakers.  I used to get secretly angry with John when he told me I was too skinny and needed to gain some weight.  Looking back, it was probably the nicest and most genuine thing he'd ever said to me.  

Senior year was saved by the fact that big, flowy shirts were in style.

This past summer I lost the charger for my iPod so I stopped running.  Exercising was replaced with cigarettes (which I don't want to quit purely for the fear of gaining weight) and Adderall.  One little pill, provided by a friend who I'm sure would stop providing it if she knew what I was really using it for, that instantly quenched my hunger.  It came to the point where I couldn't go a day without it, causing me to lose a good fifteen pounds in about two weeks.  I realized what was happening, along with numerous people asking me if I had lost weight.  My old roommate from college would beg me to eat every time she saw me.  So I stopped taking the Adderall.  Or at the very least, I stopped taking it every single day.  I allowed myself to eat a full meal.  I gained back a couple of pounds and have never felt more disgusting with myself.

During one of the days where I was leaning up against the counter at work trying not to vomit, a guy I work with hesitantly asked me if I was anorexic.  I thought about it and for the first time admitted that maybe I was.  I think what I said was, "I've had problems with it in the past".  I didn't want to admit that it was still a problem for me, now more so than ever.  He asked if I wanted a hug but I said no.  That hug would seal the deal.  It would make me a victim and I didn't want that.  I just wanted my secret eating disorder back.  

So Eating Disorder, you've been thrown under the bus.  The cat's out of the bag and I hope that I can get rid of you because honestly, I'm starving. 

Fuck you,

Me