It doesn't matter who I am or what I have or can accomplish in this life. People don't see me behind this corpulent mass of rolls and flaps. They see fat, they see lazy, they see stupid. Yet how can I ask people to see me, appreciate me... to love me for who I am if I can't love myself?
My flesh is punishment for failure to control my coping mechanism. Even in eating disorders I fail. If I'm driven to binge to assuage my anger, relive stress, handle guilt and find comfort; the least I could do is be strong enough to purge afterwards. Dumbass! I lack the will to do even that.
I've failed over and over starving and binging and dieting and starving again only to gain weight back since I first went to Weight Watchers with my Mom as an elementary school girl. I've lost track of how many people I've already lost and I will have to do so again (an obese person even) to be at a "normal" aka socially acceptable weight. No wonder I have no metabolism. No wonder I never feel satisfied.
Binging is apparently a lesser eating disorder. If I fit the profile of anorexia nervosa or bulimia nervosa I could get help, although there are no treatment centers for eating disorders in OH. Bingeing, being super obese is my own damn fault. I deserve what I've got. That's the message on the street. The worst part is I totally and completely believe it.
I have tried so hard and yet I can't Eat to to live, not live to eat. I know food is a false friend. It's there when I swear I could run naked screaming through the streets and no one would notice or care. It whispers that it will never criticize, hurt or leave me when all the world seems to be against me. It promises to fill the endless gaping hole inside me where only anger and self loathing survive. That of all is why I binge, to fill that maw of failure and inadequacy with something.
It lies. It is my destroyer, and yet I am utterly defeated by it every time. I don't know any other way to be. I know what to do to help myself, but I fail in the execution. I could stop drinking, smoking, drugs, or gambling but I can never stop eating. I'm not ready to die. I can't live either. Food has taken over my life. I also know only I can fill the void. When I find a way, it will have to come from me and no one else. I must find away to process the anger, stress, and self hatred. It's a wound that needs to be packed, encouraging it to heal from the inside out. It will leave scars, but it can be accomplished with the right guidance.