Drinking, drinking myself half to death, like a fish. Drinking to numb out and finally pass out, insomnia free–peace. Drinking to not think about food, calories, body image-any of it.
Mix of alcohol and prescription pills makes me paranoid before bedtime. No time to count sheep—no time to jump over the fence and follow the herd—one, two, three.
I duck and look under beds–in closets, cabinets, searching like Sherlock Holmes. For who?
Anyone who is going to bust me—imaginary handcuffs around my wrists.
Anyone who is an undercover spy, going to report me to the “anorexia police.” I routinely check around my apartment until I black out. No more paranoia. No more awake life, just darkness.
I wake up on the couch, floor, and bed if I am lucky, eyes crusted over and head splitting into two.
There are moments when I get terrified and cry my head off. I want to run away.
I can’t live like this anymore.
Where to? Anywhere.
Just away from my mind.
My face crinkled from stress like worn leather, horror in my deep brown eyes. I am driving through a dark hole fast; my body can’t keep up with my brain. Nothing is in my rearview mirror except for sadness and bones, stacks of both.
I can’t stop.
I falsely believe drinking brings me closer to the gray area. The area that seems so far far away like my very own unattainable Neverland. Fly, fly like Wendy, Peter Pan and Tinkerbell.
To a place where everything seems more hopeful, magic is plentiful, and food isn’t Captain Hook.
There were the forgotten years. Those years lost in black outs, calories, OCD repetition. The years that all blend together–masked by darkness.
One day I awake and realize all these behaviors are self-destructive.
Band-aids on a deep dark wound. That is the day I start seeing Neverland. Through a light in a long tired tunnel, I see it.
Now, in recovery, I am there.
My gray area is found. I let myself feel.
Pain, pleasure—all of it.
I am living.
I am as real as the Velveteen rabbit. Loved from the inside out.
I am free from anorexia’s web.