the 100th post

I'm fidgeting in the lobby of the bar and grill, restlessly pacing. My limbs won't stay still. I feel the eyes of my family watching me.

"I'm cold." I finally say, wrapping my arms around myself. It's something to say. A reason for my nervous movements. 

I don't know what I'm going to eat here. I don't want to eat. I'm so hungry. Everything in this place is full of fat. Fat fat fat. I can't eat here. I can't. I want to eat so badly. 

"That's because you're just skin and bones." My mother says in a tone I know but cannot place.

I start doing pirouettes in the middle of the lobby to keep from screaming. To lock away those words she just spoke. I can't face them. The hostess gives me a look. Mad, bitter laughter bubbles up in my throat. I look crazy. I feel crazy. I am crazy.

..........

I go to a birthday party. It's the first time I've faced these friends since I've been in the hospital. They know vague details. They know just enough to make them insatiably curious. I see it, in their eyes. The questions they want to ask. I hear it in the careful way they speak to me. The overly large smiles. 

What happened to her? What happened?

They treat me like I am glass, like I might shatter. But I am made of concrete. I don't feel anything.

So I tell them. The story is so familiar to me now. I've told it so many times. To people I love. To strangers with a long string of impressive sounding medical degrees. To nurses with kind faces.

They cry when I tell them. 

I don't.

Finally one of them laughs. "I like you so much better now." She says. "You were so happy and optimistic and perfect all the time, it drove me crazy."

..........

My thoughts circle round and round and round in my head until I am dizzy. I try to focus on one of them. I try to understand it. How do I feel? 

I don't know. 

It's a simple question. But my emotions stare back at me with blank faces, and I don't recognize any of them. They are puddles of bright colors that have swirled and mixed until nothing is left but a dull, ugly brown.

This morning I weighed in at 110.4 lbs. 

I reached my goal weight. 

Last night, the Mr. made nachos. He used reduced fat cheese, somewhat healthier chips. I convinced myself it was ok. I could eat nachos. I ate a small portion. I felt ok. 

For maybe five minutes.

Then I panicked. Why did I do that? Why did I eat nachos when I have to be 110 lbs by Monday? Why? I'm so stupid! So fucking stupid!

I took two laxatives. Their sweet coating left a pleasant taste in my mouth. Then I got on the treadmill for the first time in months. I speed walked up that eternal hill for twenty minutes. When I got off, sweat was dripping into my eyes, rolling down my collarbones and between my breasts. I climbed the stairs on shaky legs. 

I felt so weak. But I finally felt ok.

I woke up at 2 am and stumbled to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet, miserably hunched over, my stomach cramping painfully as the laxatives did their work. 

This is my 100th post.

I am 110.4 lbs. 

How do I feel?

I don't know.