FUCKING GINORMOUS

I don't want to have to fix this. It's too much. It's too big.

This, this one thing, is what I gained 60 pounds to ignore.

Gallons of ice cream, so that I wouldn't have to think about it.

Mountains of oreos, so that I could pretend that year never happened.

Vats of icing, to pretend that I was fine.


HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I WAS SO NOT FINE.


I am once again in awe of my Denial Powers. Seeing it now, seeing the scars that year left behind in me: they're huge. FUCKING GINORMOUS. HOW COULD I COMPLETELY BLOCK OUT SOMETHING THAT FUCKING GINORMOUS. NO WONDER I ATE MYSELF INTO A COMA TWO SPRINGS IN A ROW AND STARVED MYSELF IN AND OUT OF BOTH OF THEM. NO WONDER I DID NOT EAT LIKE A HUMAN FOR THREE FUCKING YEARS.

Because the eating disorder is only the manifestation! The eating disorder is the way to deal with the shit life throws. And this--ha!--this was far and away too much shit, and I responded the way I'd learned: starve yourself holy, eat yourself numb.

When I told Y those untold things last week, I was opening a box that had, until that point, been buried under 60 pounds of terror and avoidance and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame and terror and shame....

Now I'm afraid to look in. And I'm afraid to close it--what if I'm never able to open it again? It has to stay open. I have to get better. But it

HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRTS.




Seven months ago, me to Y: "No, I never talk about him. I didn't bring him up with M, like, ever. Oh, I dunno. There's probably some stuff to talk about there. I guess. Not a lot, though. Let's talk about something else."