Food Diary Confession

Food consumes me. Every minute between meals is fraught with calculation, my thoughts no longer my own, but owned by my next bite. I can’t follow this conversation anymore; your words taste like distraction, and I am looking for a treat. No. No treats allowed—what I am looking for is treatment. This disease has made an enemy of my brain. My body is no longer my own and, in a moment, I’ll be outside myself. Outside the room where someone that looks like me eats and does not stop, eats and cannot stop, cannot even think, inhaling food instead of air while her hands and mouth move beyond her control. What a pity.

Pit in my stomach. No, pit is my stomach. It isn’t just the scale but scaling this wall hurts; I am blood-crusted fingernails and cracked palms. I am vengeful teeth fighting tight skin. I hide empty wrappers in my dresser, tuck them below the mattress, slip one between the books on the shelf, fold a few into the laundry, brew more into my morning coffee, and still, I tell myself that tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow my brain will win. Tomorrow I will start again: 1,200 calories, every bite logged, every step tallied, every possible number accounted for. Tomorrow my disorder will be ordered, meticulously ordered, it must be because only structure can save me now. But the numbers are so sharp and pointed, the curve of zero looks like salvation.

– AJ Wilcox