I stepped out of the bathroom and shook off the harshness that had come over me. Had that actually happened? It felt so real but at the same time it felt like walking through a dream. Or rather, a nightmare.
I took my place back at the table and saw the worried look on my parents faces. They asked me if everything was okay and I nodded. I stared down at my plate and saw the heaping pile of spaghetti before me. It looked so intimidating and I wanted to push it away, to tell my parents I was full just to avoid taking another bite. But the smell of it was wonderful. It reminded me of childhood, something my mom made all the time that I would scarf down while watching cartoons in the evening. Back in the day before I cared what I looked like. When I only cared about being happy in my own skin without a care in the world.
I still vaguely remember the conversation I had with myself in the bathroom. It told me that none of this was worth it. That I should reject the food rather than eat it. That gaining weight was a dumb idea. And a part of me agreed. This was a hard thing to push myself through. I'm sure my parents would understand if I said I didn't want anymore. Heck, they'd probably happily finish my plate for me.
But if I break my streak, if I relapse and jump back into starving myself, what was the point of even trying in the first place? Why even begin to make a change in my life if I'm willing to throw it all away because of some hesitating thoughts? Sure, the food looked intimidating, but that's the point of recovery right? To challenge yourself, to push yourself beyond what feels safe and step into the discomfort of it all. After all, can we still call it recovery if we don't challenge ourselves from time to time?
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my fork from the table, stabbed it into the spaghetti and jammed it in my mouth without a second thought. My mind was clouded with the strange textures, the off flavor, the tastes of salt and sugar buried in the sauce. I had to push past it. If I was going to finish my plate I had to think of it positively. Come on, brain. Push past the fear and anxiety. Feel how good it actually tastes. It's good food made with love from your mother. You can smell how amazing it is, just feel again how good it actually tastes without the negativity getting in the way. You can do it, come one.
I took another bite, then another. With each fork full I stopped thinking about the horrors of the food and began tasting it, actually tasting it. It took until the last few bites to really peel back the layers of fear, but by the final bite I fell in love with the taste of it. I almost wanted one more bite, but I felt like my body couldn't physically handle any more.
I thanked them for the food and we hung out for a while. We turned on a movie and talked about things going on in our lives lately. We caught up with each other, shared a few laughs, and by the time the movie ended I felt the food settle in my stomach and was growing tired. I said my goodbyes and headed out the door, back to my apartment.
I took my place back at the table and saw the worried look on my parents faces. They asked me if everything was okay and I nodded. I stared down at my plate and saw the heaping pile of spaghetti before me. It looked so intimidating and I wanted to push it away, to tell my parents I was full just to avoid taking another bite. But the smell of it was wonderful. It reminded me of childhood, something my mom made all the time that I would scarf down while watching cartoons in the evening. Back in the day before I cared what I looked like. When I only cared about being happy in my own skin without a care in the world.
I still vaguely remember the conversation I had with myself in the bathroom. It told me that none of this was worth it. That I should reject the food rather than eat it. That gaining weight was a dumb idea. And a part of me agreed. This was a hard thing to push myself through. I'm sure my parents would understand if I said I didn't want anymore. Heck, they'd probably happily finish my plate for me.
But if I break my streak, if I relapse and jump back into starving myself, what was the point of even trying in the first place? Why even begin to make a change in my life if I'm willing to throw it all away because of some hesitating thoughts? Sure, the food looked intimidating, but that's the point of recovery right? To challenge yourself, to push yourself beyond what feels safe and step into the discomfort of it all. After all, can we still call it recovery if we don't challenge ourselves from time to time?
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my fork from the table, stabbed it into the spaghetti and jammed it in my mouth without a second thought. My mind was clouded with the strange textures, the off flavor, the tastes of salt and sugar buried in the sauce. I had to push past it. If I was going to finish my plate I had to think of it positively. Come on, brain. Push past the fear and anxiety. Feel how good it actually tastes. It's good food made with love from your mother. You can smell how amazing it is, just feel again how good it actually tastes without the negativity getting in the way. You can do it, come one.
I took another bite, then another. With each fork full I stopped thinking about the horrors of the food and began tasting it, actually tasting it. It took until the last few bites to really peel back the layers of fear, but by the final bite I fell in love with the taste of it. I almost wanted one more bite, but I felt like my body couldn't physically handle any more.
I thanked them for the food and we hung out for a while. We turned on a movie and talked about things going on in our lives lately. We caught up with each other, shared a few laughs, and by the time the movie ended I felt the food settle in my stomach and was growing tired. I said my goodbyes and headed out the door, back to my apartment.
***
After returning home, I started to feel bloated. I felt myself start to wobble as if I was carrying extra weight that my body wasn't used to. What was happening to me? I began to regret eating all that food earlier.
My legs felt like rubber as they carried me to my bathroom. I flicked on the lights and turned to face myself in the mirror. I cried out in terror as I saw what I had become. I had flabs of extra skin extending off my face. I could see my stomach poking through the bottom of my shirt. I saw the flabs of fat on my arms that jiggled with even the slightest movement. What have I done?!
"I told you not to eat and yet you ignore me!" the familiar raspy voice escaped my lips. "Do you have any idea what I am capable of, what I can do to you?! You see that twisted, ugly reflection? I can make you see yourself however I want!"
I raised my hands to touch my face. I could see my reflection moving the flabs of skin in its fingertips while I felt nothing but the frail skin on my own face.
"I can make you look fatter!" It cried as my reflection morphed. "And fatter!" My reflection shifted and shifted until I couldn't make out any features, just a big ball of flesh standing before the mirror.
"Or I can show you how sickly scrawny the rest of the world sees you!" The skin flabs disappeared in an instant, to be replaced with me. An incredibly unhealthy version of me. It looked almost alien with how the skin stretched over my bones, not a single muscle or hint of fat inside. I was deeply horrified and wanted to look away but the demon kept me locked in place.
"You have no idea what I'm capable of!" it said. "I can make you see anything, say anything, do anything I want and there's nothing you can do about it!" That made my blood run cold. What did it plan to do with me? "I told you not to eat that food. I told you to throw it away, to reject it and you didn't listen! You're disgusting! And now you're fat! You've failed yourself! You failed that little girl because you don't know when to stop!"
My reflection shifted back to normal in the mirror as it spoke. But could I trust it? It looked like I had put on a bit of weight. Maybe it was right. Maybe I went too far and ate too much. Maybe I was wrong.
"You need to stop! You need to eat less, that's the only way to remove all this disgusting weight you've put on yourself!" it hissed in my voice.
I shook my head. "No, that's not true," I said. "I'm getting better. I'm looking healthier. My parents even said so!"
"YOUR PARENTS ARE FOOLS!" it shouted, making my lungs ache. "You think they know your body better than I do!? NO ONE DOES! YOU'RE GETTING FAT AND WE CAN'T HAVE THAT!"
"No!" I cried, clutching the sides of my face, my eyes clamped shut. "Get out of my head!"
"You don't tell me what to do!" It shouted in resistance. "I'm the one in control now, NOT YOU! You've already proved you can't be trusted to make your own decisions, so I have to make them for you!"
"No! Please!" I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes.
I felt my hand raise and slap my face hard, a sharp sting resonating across my cheek. I tried to raise my hand to rub the spot, to make it feel a bit better, but I couldn't move at all. All I could do was stare at myself in the mirror.
"You don't tell me what to do, not anymore!" it hissed at me. "And I think as a punishment for not listening, for trying to get rid of me, I think we ought to do something about that tongue of yours..."
I felt my legs move on their own accord as they carried me over to the kitchen. My hand clumsily flicked on the lights with complete disregard for the angle, nor the pain I felt as the switch cut into the back of my hand. My heart was racing as my body carried itself through the kitchen, looking all over the countertops. What was it looking for?
Then my gaze fell on the knife block next to my microwave. My eyes grew wide as I tried to fight my body as it reached toward the knives, pulling a fresh blade from the wood block. I pushed hard, trying to get my hand to release the knife, to move my arm away from my body, to do something, anything to stop it.
"No! Please!" I begged, my lips being the only ounce of control I had over my body.
"Perhaps a clean slice to the tongue with make you learn your lesson, little girl!" it let out a sinister chuckle from my lips. "Maybe the sting you feel every time you take a bite of food will remind you who's really in charge here!"
With as much resistance as I could against it, I felt my mouth open and my tongue slide out. The knife raised to my lips. I clamped my eyes shut, bracing for the pain - but stopped short when I heard a knock at the front door.
"Morgan?" I heard my mother's muffled voice from the other side of my front door. "It's your mother. I saw how much you liked that spaghetti so I brought some more over."
"Perfect!" I heard my voice whisper. "Open the door. Let her in. She can watch you suffer!"
"No!" I stopped myself.
There it was. The resistance. I was finally able to fight back.
"What?!" my voice cried. "I said open that door!"
I felt it fight back hard, moving one leg, then the other. I struggled against it and was so close to regaining control. So close!
I stopped in front of the front door and felt my hand glide to the door knob.
"You aren't in control of me!" I declared. "Not anymore!"
With a final grunt, I shot my hand back down to my side. I took a step back from the door. Then another. I loved my mom but I couldn't let her see me like this. Tearing myself to shreds. I collapsed on the floor and blacked out.
My legs felt like rubber as they carried me to my bathroom. I flicked on the lights and turned to face myself in the mirror. I cried out in terror as I saw what I had become. I had flabs of extra skin extending off my face. I could see my stomach poking through the bottom of my shirt. I saw the flabs of fat on my arms that jiggled with even the slightest movement. What have I done?!
"I told you not to eat and yet you ignore me!" the familiar raspy voice escaped my lips. "Do you have any idea what I am capable of, what I can do to you?! You see that twisted, ugly reflection? I can make you see yourself however I want!"
I raised my hands to touch my face. I could see my reflection moving the flabs of skin in its fingertips while I felt nothing but the frail skin on my own face.
"I can make you look fatter!" It cried as my reflection morphed. "And fatter!" My reflection shifted and shifted until I couldn't make out any features, just a big ball of flesh standing before the mirror.
"Or I can show you how sickly scrawny the rest of the world sees you!" The skin flabs disappeared in an instant, to be replaced with me. An incredibly unhealthy version of me. It looked almost alien with how the skin stretched over my bones, not a single muscle or hint of fat inside. I was deeply horrified and wanted to look away but the demon kept me locked in place.
"You have no idea what I'm capable of!" it said. "I can make you see anything, say anything, do anything I want and there's nothing you can do about it!" That made my blood run cold. What did it plan to do with me? "I told you not to eat that food. I told you to throw it away, to reject it and you didn't listen! You're disgusting! And now you're fat! You've failed yourself! You failed that little girl because you don't know when to stop!"
My reflection shifted back to normal in the mirror as it spoke. But could I trust it? It looked like I had put on a bit of weight. Maybe it was right. Maybe I went too far and ate too much. Maybe I was wrong.
"You need to stop! You need to eat less, that's the only way to remove all this disgusting weight you've put on yourself!" it hissed in my voice.
I shook my head. "No, that's not true," I said. "I'm getting better. I'm looking healthier. My parents even said so!"
"YOUR PARENTS ARE FOOLS!" it shouted, making my lungs ache. "You think they know your body better than I do!? NO ONE DOES! YOU'RE GETTING FAT AND WE CAN'T HAVE THAT!"
"No!" I cried, clutching the sides of my face, my eyes clamped shut. "Get out of my head!"
"You don't tell me what to do!" It shouted in resistance. "I'm the one in control now, NOT YOU! You've already proved you can't be trusted to make your own decisions, so I have to make them for you!"
"No! Please!" I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes.
I felt my hand raise and slap my face hard, a sharp sting resonating across my cheek. I tried to raise my hand to rub the spot, to make it feel a bit better, but I couldn't move at all. All I could do was stare at myself in the mirror.
"You don't tell me what to do, not anymore!" it hissed at me. "And I think as a punishment for not listening, for trying to get rid of me, I think we ought to do something about that tongue of yours..."
I felt my legs move on their own accord as they carried me over to the kitchen. My hand clumsily flicked on the lights with complete disregard for the angle, nor the pain I felt as the switch cut into the back of my hand. My heart was racing as my body carried itself through the kitchen, looking all over the countertops. What was it looking for?
Then my gaze fell on the knife block next to my microwave. My eyes grew wide as I tried to fight my body as it reached toward the knives, pulling a fresh blade from the wood block. I pushed hard, trying to get my hand to release the knife, to move my arm away from my body, to do something, anything to stop it.
"No! Please!" I begged, my lips being the only ounce of control I had over my body.
"Perhaps a clean slice to the tongue with make you learn your lesson, little girl!" it let out a sinister chuckle from my lips. "Maybe the sting you feel every time you take a bite of food will remind you who's really in charge here!"
With as much resistance as I could against it, I felt my mouth open and my tongue slide out. The knife raised to my lips. I clamped my eyes shut, bracing for the pain - but stopped short when I heard a knock at the front door.
"Morgan?" I heard my mother's muffled voice from the other side of my front door. "It's your mother. I saw how much you liked that spaghetti so I brought some more over."
"Perfect!" I heard my voice whisper. "Open the door. Let her in. She can watch you suffer!"
"No!" I stopped myself.
There it was. The resistance. I was finally able to fight back.
"What?!" my voice cried. "I said open that door!"
I felt it fight back hard, moving one leg, then the other. I struggled against it and was so close to regaining control. So close!
I stopped in front of the front door and felt my hand glide to the door knob.
"You aren't in control of me!" I declared. "Not anymore!"
With a final grunt, I shot my hand back down to my side. I took a step back from the door. Then another. I loved my mom but I couldn't let her see me like this. Tearing myself to shreds. I collapsed on the floor and blacked out.
***
I pounded on the door again, calling for my daughter. Then I saw the door knob turn and the door jerked open. Out stepped a disheveled woman I didn't recognize. Her clothes were tattered and smeared with dirt. Her hair matted like she hadn't seen a shower in years. I was in shock by what I saw.
"I- is Morgan here?" I stammered. She just glared at me, pushed past me and darted out the door and down the hallway. She was out of sight before I knew it.
"What the hell was that all about?" I muttered to myself.
My attention shifted to my daughter, who lay on the floor, just next to her couch. I leaped toward her and cradled her head. I ran my hand through her hair as I saw her chest rise and fall.
"What did that lady do to you?" I asked softly, as if my daughter could even hear me. "You're safe now..."
"I- is Morgan here?" I stammered. She just glared at me, pushed past me and darted out the door and down the hallway. She was out of sight before I knew it.
"What the hell was that all about?" I muttered to myself.
My attention shifted to my daughter, who lay on the floor, just next to her couch. I leaped toward her and cradled her head. I ran my hand through her hair as I saw her chest rise and fall.
"What did that lady do to you?" I asked softly, as if my daughter could even hear me. "You're safe now..."
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