I Think That I Would Die

I don’t feel really pretty; I really don’t.

You ever feel nothing? It’s mind-numbing; I'm desperate to feel anything. I sit here most of the time bored out of my mind, waiting for someone or something to entertain me. Even then, it’s never enough; I feel no joy from being surrounded by others; I feel nothing. You’ll take any risk, just to feel something, feel some attention. Food fills that hole; it really does. Everything I shove down my gullet brings oxytocin to my brain. I abused painkillers in the past; nothing compares to food, nothing compares to the high I get from eating. I am greedy, I know, so excited to eat like some little pig. I can’t stand eating in front of people, always worried about how I look eating. If I am eating too fast, too slow, too greedily, too ravenously, too animalistic. My friends act so normal about eating; I am envious. I think about food constantly; it's terrifying. I feel like I am a slave to it, so obsessed with it.

I can’t be obsessed with food and stay thin. My hips have grown plump; I look like a woman now. The woman my mom always wanted me to become. My breasts sit uncomfortably in my shirt; I hate them, I hate the way people stare at them. I hate that I have grown sizes, and I am disgusted with myself over that. I miss being slender; I miss having no curves, nothing to me. I miss lying down and feeling my bones; I miss being small. I miss being able to fit in kids’ clothes; it reminded me of my youth. It reminded me of a time when I watched princess movies and would play with Barbie dolls. I just want people to admire how sick I am, to feel some type of way. To care, I guess. I want them to see me slowly die and guess what? They can’t do anything about it; they watch me slowly die.

I’m eating Cheez-It in the bathroom right now; I am sitting near the toilet, ready to puke it up whenever I am done. I shove my chubby hand into the box; fuck, it's almost gone. I hate my hands; they look like a child’s. I still have dimples on my hand like some kid, disgusting. I have the sharp cheddar flavor; I can’t really stand the other flavors. I pick up the last cracker and place it on my tongue, letting it kiss my taste buds. God, food feels like an orgasm. I think it does, at least; I don’t know never experienced one. I can’t stand touching my body. I can’t stand feeling the fat chunks on it; every piece of me is a reminder of how insignificant I am. I chew on the cracker, letting it turn into mush in my mouth. As soon as it travels down my throat, I stand up, putting up the seat on the toilet. I shove my fingers into a spot in my throat; this one little spot, that if I just pet it, everything comes out. One thing people don’t tell you is that it tastes just as good coming up as it does going down. I pet at the spot in my throat, slowly, feeling the saliva coat my fingers, making them all wet and slippery.

It comes up; my vomit goes splattering around the toilet bowl. I continue to rub the spot in my throat; more comes up before I can even remove my fingers. It all comes up; the vomit splatters everywhere; it even gets on the ground. I am too lazy to clean it up; I will just let it crust there, a permanent reminder of my shame. Some of it even gets in my hair; I will wash it out later. That’s a lie; I won't. I struggle with showering; I can’t stand seeing my body in the mirror. People tell me not to look, but I can’t help. I contort myself in the mirror, stretching and twisting into different positions. Trying to see where the fat will poke out. I just want to take scissors and cut it off. Sometimes I take my scissors from the junk drawer in my apartment and trace them around my stomach; it’d be so easy if I wasn’t such a baby. I always put them back, where they belong, in the junk drawer, waiting for me to take them out again, to start the ritual over.

I look down at the Cheez-It box next to me; I kick it over. Fuck, I hate myself; I hate that I did that. But I cannot help myself. I feel like my stomach kick, its still hungry, it still wants more. I make my way to the kitchen, and I pull open my fridge. It’s almost empty; I have spent the past few days doing this over and over again. Eating, purging, curling up in a ball by the toilet, falling asleep, waking up, and doing it all over again. My throat constantly hurts now; it's painful to even stick my fingers inside of it. It feels like sandpaper. I wake up nauseous, ready to puke; I can’t eat anything without being nauseous; it's like my body knows it’s time. That eating means we will puke it up.

My phone buzzes; it's a boy I am talking to, asking if I want to go out tomorrow. I met him on a dating app; I lied about my age. Said I was twenty-five when I am really twenty. He’s twenty-seven. I told myself I’d stop eating for him; we have been talking for almost two weeks, and I spent those two weeks binging. I spent those two weeks eating. I love male attention; I really do. Never got it when I was young, never experienced high school sweethearts. Now it’s left a hole inside of me, only a man could fill. My therapist suggests that I might have daddy issues; I agree. I remember as a kid, he’d make me lie down next to him in bed, and- fuck no, I can’t talk about it. I hate thinking about it; I hate it. Oh my god, I hate him. Why did he do this to me? I was supposed to be your little girl, and you wanted me to be a woman. I pick up my phone and put in my passcode. I open the dating app and text him that, sure, I’d love to see him tomorrow. That it’s a date, and ask him where he wants to meet, what time as well.

Back when I was skinny, I used to do fetish modeling for men who liked girls with eating disorders. It was the sweetest validation I ever felt. They’d poke at my bones, run their fingers along my chest, feeling the nothing that was there. They’d take photos of me, and post me on random sites. I loved it; I loved feeling wanted by men. I hope this new guy doesn’t know I did that though; a part of me regrets it. Whatever, if he truly wants to be with me, he would accept my past.

I put my phone down on the counter and continue my search in the fridge. I find chocolate, and open it gleefully. Pig. I barely even chew; I practically swallow it whole. I rush to the bathroom again and do the same process over again. This time it comes up thick, like those chocolate fountains they’d have at school dances. I should’ve eaten strawberries with it, would’ve tasted like chocolate-covered strawberries, would’ve been yummy.

I rush to the fridge again, finding more food. My mind can barely think. It is just a ritual: shovel in the food and throw up. Shovel. Throw up. Shovel. Throw up. I am like a garbage truck. I am hungry; I am an animal. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up one day and transformed into a pig, a hog. Life would be easier that way; I could be in front of a trough and eat all the slop I want. My owner would feed me table scraps. Atleast me being plump would be useful; I would be slaughtered and eaten.

I find some week-old chicken in the fridge; before I can make any judgment, I shovel it in. It tastes horrible; it tastes spoiled, but I cannot stop myself. I keep shoveling; I keep grabbing pieces of it and shoving it hastily down my throat.

I can’t breathe. I begin to scratch at my throat, fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t breathe. Oh my god, someone help me. I rush towards my phone; my hands are shaking. Forget the phone; I can’t speak. Fuck, why am I so stupid? I rush over to the sink, sticking my fingers down my throat like I always do. I pet that little spot in my throat; nothing is coming up. Oh my god. I shove my whole hand practically down my throat; it does nothing but push the chicken down farther. I rip open the cabinet, looking for a cup; maybe I need water to wash it down. I am so frantic that I knock over a lot of glass cups; they go crashing down, and glass goes everywhere by my feet. I manage to grab one cup, though, and I walk over the glass to go to the sink. Crunch. I feel the shards slide into my feet, inserting themselves deep inside my flesh. I began sweating from lack of oxygen, but I prevail. I turn on the sink, shoving my glass underneath the stream of water hastily. I bring the cup up to my lips and start gulping; it's not going down. The water just comes back up, and I spew it everywhere.

My legs feel funny, and soon they give out underneath me; I am on the floor. I keep trying to dig my fingers down my throat, desperate to get it out. I cannot die this way; you know how embarrassing that’d be? I am already in full-panic mode; I keep trying to dig at my throat. Every time I pull out my fingers to look to see if I got any piece, they are covered in blood. My heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest, oh god.

I am losing consciousness; I have begun to fade in and out. My body has become numb; my head has begun to pound. It feels like someone dropped an anvil on my head.

I have stopped trying to get it out of my throat; I am accepting my fate.

I let my body lose consciousness; I let myself fade away into black. I close my eyes, ready for it to take over, for me to really be knocked out. It doesn’t take long; soon I am on the floor, my airways are closed, and I lay there. I hope someone finds me; I hope someone goes looking for me. All I can think about is how I am such a pig.

A/N: All my posts are named after songs; this one is named after the Hole song.