empty

Well, my my. It's been quite some time since I've bared it all on this little blog, now hasn't it? I'm feeling confessional. I'm feeling surprisingly not vulnerable. I am not brave, but in some foreign land between vulnerability and bravery. So what now? Do I "confess" this and that? Do I complain? Vent? Keep asking questions? Uh, apparently the last one. Right? See what I did there? Anyway.

Anyway.

I eat. I eat sporadically and privately. I nibble. I have rituals and routines and odd compulsions. I feel terrible pangs of guilt after every "meal." Often I feel terrible stomach pangs in the form of "Oh shit I just stuffed myself." Ten times out of ten I wish I felt hunger pangs instead. And so I go after that desired empty feeling. I run off and away from the fullness. What I'm left with after three plus hours is definitely emptiness paired with aching, tremendously aching, joints and muscles.

Sometimes I fantasize about the scene I will cause in the future when my most important muscle gives out after lap eleven. What then? Who will be called?

And there's more empty space around me. I've lost mass, I've lost friends. I found my "sick" jeans the other day, the only jeans that didn't sag on me back when I was the skinniest (and sickest) I've ever been. I found them purposely "hidden" in a box in the basement. They fit once again. I was pleased, even pretty damn excited.

This is pretty damn scary.

But I still don't completely believe it. I might know it, but I don't believe it.

Shall I get super confessional/personal? I haven't had my period in almost six months.

I feel like an alien in my own body. I am very disconnected, I am lost.

I am dramatic! I am tired. I am ready to sink my body/empty shell into bed.

I am embarrassed. I am fine.