“I don’t want to die, I just want to be skinny.”
That was what my sister said before she died of starvation last week. Self imposed starvation. Anorexia. It sounds stupid – can’t she see that her need to be skinny is causing her to die? Can’t she? I know she can because I have the same illness. And I can see it. I can also see the pain in my parent’s eyes as they turn their gaze from their dead daughter to their dying one. But logic doesn’t heal and neither does treatment.
It’s a disease that’s burrowed deep down and lodged itself in my skull. No soft words of advice or crying shrieks of pain can scratch it out. I try sometimes with my finger. I think, Maybe if this little bit of food comes out and that little bit of stomach goes in, maybe, maybe, I can live in peace. But it never works like that. As I said, logic doesn’t heal.
At my sister’s funeral, they spoke of her bravery, her fight. She didn’t fight, she starved. She was just like me and I am just like her and I don’t fight. When I look in the mirror and see FAT and hear FAT and scream FAT I don’t fight what I feel beneath my hands that whisper
bones and plead bones and cry bones. Bravery is listening to logic. But logic doesn’t heal.
I’m going the same way that she went. I look down and see my toes and my ribs and my knobby knees. I’m wrapped in sweaters and blankets and I’m never warm. I know why I’m never warm. My intake of food is not enough to upkeep the survival of my body and my brain has other things to do like
keep my heart pumping
so it can’t waste its limited and valuable time on keeping a sick girl warm
it has to keep her alive
but only if she fed it a little more food she could
be warm and
she could dance and
wear dresses and
But logic doesn’t heal.