I woke up to hair and I coped alone with tears. Sitting my self up and looking down unto my pillow as what used to fall so perfectly around my face just laying there, unattached and dead. I pick them up and look at the roots. They’re dark. I try to ignore the fact that I have brown hair by routinely getting it highlighted. Just one of many aspects of myself that I try to hide and with it strand that I picked up I can feel the foundations of the walls the I have built begin to tremble.
I can’t hide this anymore. My mental disease has taken a physical component and my own body is no longer a shell where I can seek refuge. My clothes aren’t fitting, my hair is falling and my stomach is full from the meals I have tried to choke down. I’ve told everyone who needs to know about my relapse and people have been great. The words “I love you” and “I’m proud of you” feel like a knife because those are earned words. They don’t just come to people, they are taken from stories, memories, heartaches and laughter. I have those things but I don’t deserve them being told to me. Starving is not an earned love or earned pride. I am told those things but I look in their eyes and I see fear. Fear for me but also a fear for themselves. They know that if it gets worse they get sicker too. It’s contagious. My eating disorder makes things for everyone so miserable. The guilt I feel for doing this to these people is more painful than anything else. I’m a people pleaser and I am great at it but I struggle with this. I don’t know what is going to happen, I can’t promise people a full recovery and I can’t promise that I won’t hurt them again. I can control what I put into my body, I can control the amount of treatment I get but I cannot control the future. If I could, I would make it painless for the ones around me.
Until then, I pick up my hair and throw it away. I wipe my tears so I can paint my face to disguise how lifeless it looks. I create straight lines over my eyelids to make them look a beautiful blue and hope that the nobody looks dead into them to see the sadness and fear I am hiding. I twist my hair tightly into my father’s favorite braid. Topsy Tail. I hope when he sees it he sees the innocence that I am trying to portray, praying that the twist is tight enough to hold the strands that will try to fall out. Innocent until proven guilty. I want to hug me goodbye, and leave afraid that he will never see me again because of his illness and not mine. I will paint myself healthy until I actually am.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.