The other day I was confronted with one of the things I am most disgusted by – aside from the giant cockroach that had weaselled its way into my apartment somehow, forcing me to fumigate the place and leave it stinking like a chemical plant. A pro-ana pre-teen drama queen. And I don’t want any of this sensitivity crap to start up, I do know that anorexia is a mental disorder, and that some people can’t help it but I just… Ugh, when a thirteen-year-old girl starts asking me how I lost so much weight and whines to me about how fat she is when she doesn’t even have breasts yet, it pisses me off.
She told me she thought my weight was cool. I am quoting here. That 38 kilograms is amazingly awesome and whatnot. At that point I was about to send her to the blocked list, but then she went on to say it’s cool because I can eat whatever I want.
And that is what completely destroyed me. She thought that anorexia meant eating whatever you wanted. Well, little girl, how about the constant fear of calories? The dread of fats that you know you need to survive? Or the opposite, how about forcing cookies and rice and nuts down your throat just to gain weight, even when your stomach feels like you’re about to explode? How about that?
Which brings me to another point. The concept of what I want is very difficult to grasp when you’re sick with this… thing. Because you have managed to convince yourself that what you want is healthy food, or low-calorie food. And it becomes second nature. So you have no idea whether the carrots you’re eating are what you really want or you’ve just tricked yourself, conditioned yourself to think so. When we say we make healthy choices, are we making choices at all?
Think about this, little girl. And enjoy your puppy fat with a side of chocolate sundae.