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Last night I was discussing my eating disorder with one of my friends while my best friend Princetta was staying over. She liked how I worded things, and shared some of my experiences. I emailed her the conversation as she asked, and she has edited it somewhat, making grammatical changes, and putting it together. I am re-posting it here as I like what I had said too, but did not have the time to take it from AIM format & make it work. <3 It is below.

My best friend has an eating disorder as well, and we tend to think/do the same things without thinking about it. She and I are just very alike.
Last night while I was staying over her house, she was describing her illness to one of our other friends, who doesn’t understand the pain that we go through. I loved the way she worded it, and had her email it to me. I edited some parts and took out grammatical errors and changed things around so it made more sense, but I figured I’d post it because it was exactly how I feel.

“I wake up, and my first thought is about Breakfast. I think about pop tarts, and I think about orange juice, and normal things that teenagers and adults eat.  I sit there, I go on the computer, I shower, and I distract myself.

I think about food; I think about eating it; I think about how it would taste; how it would feel sliding down my throat. And then Lunch rolls around. I think about grilled cheese, and snacks, and I do the same thing. Dinner comes, and I repeat this process. When I am out with my friends, I think about food. When I am sleeping, I dream about food. When I am on the toilet, I fantasize about food. Every second of my life, food is a constant factor in my head.

What I could eat, what I can’t eat, what might be safe to eat, what I would regret eating.
It never leaves my mind.
I sit on my computer at night, hopeless and desolate.
I get up in a sudden frenzy, and stumble to the kitchen.

I stand in the empty room and I open the cabinets. I touch the boxes, re-arrange the food when nobody is around, and look inside the packages. I pull them out, run my hands over them; put them back. I pull them out again, take the food out of their containers. I tell myself to eat it. I tell myself that it’s okay. I taste the food with my fingers, and put everything back quickly. I slam the cabinets shut, frustrated.

I repeat this, over and over, sometimes all night.
Sometimes my dad comes out, and asks what’s going on. I jump; I feel guilty. I didn’t eat- but I almost did- and that is a sin enough. I now have to hide. I need to leave. Now. He can’t know what I was just about to do. What vile, repulsive act I was about to commit. He will see that I am weak; that I was about to give in. I can’t answer his questions; I can’t get away fast enough. I mumble something; I snap at him; I run away.
I spend hours at night pacing, tapping my fingers and toes, wiggling my arms. I can’t sit still. Anxiety hits; what did I eat today? What did I consume? Should I overestimate and make myself feel worse? Should I underestimate and do better tomorrow? How much twitching and quick, deep breaths would it take to burn everything off?
I think, ‘Oh god, I need help’. I want to cry. I consider asking for help; reaching out to someone who would assist me.
But then I realize, ‘No, I am too fat.’
And I resume my self destruction.
I see food as unnecessary, like jewelry. It’s something that people adorn their selves with; something that they enjoy, and use for self gratification. Not something that is needed for basic human survival.
I don’t need food.
I am above that. “