I sit on the floor in my hallway, my cat is meowing next to me, scratching at the front door. You want to escape too do you, kitty? Her big eyes stare at me, as if she's saying Catharine just get up and open the door for me. But if I did that, you might never come back to me. I wonder if she knows I'm different now, I wonder if she recognises me anymore. Animals have instincts don't they, they sense when something is wrong, they sense danger and even sadness. I wonder if she senses that I've lost myself.
I sit there reading an article written by someone recovering from an eating disorder, she writes that she always felt a fraud, like a bad anorexic, because she never fitted what society class as being someone who is anorexic.
I don't really know what my diagnosis is anymore, but it doesn't make a fucking difference anyway. Some professionals throw around the word anorexic, some say ednos, some think I've simply been abused as a child and won't admit it. But I remember the first time a nurse said the word anorexic, I nearly laughed out loud. How could I be? Didn't she see the rolls of fat through my tshirt? What was she talking about.
It doesn't matter about the figures and statistics. It doesn't matter that I meet the generally required for diagnosis bmi of less than 17.5.
I'm still not thin enough.
She was crazy. Everyone is crazy. Maybe I've gone crazy. Maybe my mind has slipped away. I've lost my fucking mind. Beezlebub.
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