Fragmented Thoughts

d1grThere was something oddly upsetting about my positivity and spontaneity as I skipped through the conversations of the evening.  It simultaneously scared me, made me feel like a fraud, and yet left me with an ease of satisfaction.

I don’t like the idea of recovery because it feels like something I am undeserving to have.  I know myself to be nothing and therefore recovery, which is everything needed to become a whole individual, is not compatible with my make up.  After, all I am nothing so how can nothing obtain everything.

I love the idea of recovery because the spiritual parts of me know it is a true and tangible goal.  That I am deserving of recovery, that I owe it to myself and my past experiences to obtain it, that I am capable of helping others if I am to accept it. My spiritual center whispers to me in moments of peace and serenity that I am on my way to feeling human again.

imagesI cooked today.  It is something I am actually pretty good at, but would never admit.  I am good at putting stuff together and creating random, delicious, and cohesive meals with all the necessary components.  But when I cook, I am convinced I don’t have an eating disorder, that I have no problems with food, that I am just a fraud who spent years inside treatment centers for the attention and comfort that “being sick” brought me.  Then, I accidentally put more butter in the dish than I intended and I panic and feel like crying, and as the imaginary tears are streaming down my pathetic face, I realize that the eating disorder is real and the extra half tablespoon of butter developed, in that moment, the difference between life and death.

Butter makes things taste better.  I think butter can be added to almost anything and it taste better.  I use butter all the time now.  I used to never touch it.

Butter is the visual representation of everything I hate about food. Dense. Thick. Fat. Tokyo-scattered-likes-bees-on-wind-1024x687Unpredictable and yet necessary. I don’t want to touch it or think about it let alone consume it.

Butter is a just like my mind.  A slimy blend of solid and liquid that seeps into everything it comes in contact with.

It is midnight and I curl up into a ball on my big fluffy bed.  I feel like I am six years old as I am unsure about whether it is safe to close my eyes.  I want my mom to sing me to sleep and promise me that the butter won’t come and visit me in my dreams tonight.

I zoom out and look at myself.  The pathetic little ball in her big bed, clutching a pile of stuffed animals. The mess of melted butter, drying on the black kitchen counter-tops. A ball of fears and uncertainties, of regrets and irrationality.  I zoom out more and more until I am just a speck and the butter is microscopic.  That is reality.

The universe is so big and I am so small…

…I think I am going to sleep….people-300


…For once I am going to close my eyes…

…But I can’t.