My throat is aching, burning like it is on fire. My head is pounding, a secret pain that only I can feel. My body feels slow, sluggish as I walk through the house, surveying the mess that will be my duty to clean up. My eyes are struggling to stay open, every blink is a war against my body. You are not tired, you must not sleep yet. The open door lets the fresh morning breeze seep through my layers of fat and skin right down to my bones where it settles, making me feel cold to the very core of my being. I am cold – so cold.
As I type I’m sitting in the cuddliest bathrobe a person could hope for and I am encompassed by a duvet, yet I’m still cold. So cold. I don’t think anything could bring me any heat right now; not the fluffiest blanket, not the warmest jumper, not the softest socks and certainly not cuddles. I’m sick. So sick.
I can feel it building up. Within days I’m going to be incapable of exercising, incapable of restricting, incapable of fluid thoughts, incapable of getting out of my bed. But instead of fighting it, I welcome it with open arms. I need to feel something other than hungry. I need to feel something other than disgusted. I need to feel something other than fat.
I just need to know that I’m capable of feeling something, anything, outside of the war going on inside my mind.