There are 95 calories in a medium sized apple. 357 in my favorite pretzel. 120 in my favorite coffee. I know all there is to know about almost every piece of food that touches my mouth. I like it because there is no depth to it. I don’t have to give food my trust and have it broken, I don’t have to get to know it because there is no personal barrier to it. It’s a number and that’s it’s depth. The twisted relationship that gives me so much comfort because it’s simple, not complex, and it’s always the same.
I was diagnosed with a new disorder today and to a degree, the fact that this demon has a name makes it make a little more sense in my head. It’s treatable and is just another pill bottle away to becoming a routine.
I know my disorders aren’t supposed to define who I am, they are just something I have. But lately it seems the symptoms of my disorders seem like a biography of my life.
There is a fear that I’m becoming less and less “marketable” to meeting new people, especially when it comes to intimacy. In all honesty who wants a person who has to explain why she can’t pick up a sandwich on her first date? Or a friend that purges what is fed to her? I mean, I wouldn’t want that either.
I hope to find depth in myself beyond my disorders. My disorders and fears label me as a complex individual and I realize that. I can’t just be the apple or the coffee where the facts of my life are limited to a number. I think the only choice I have is embrace my complexity. That’s all I can do really. Accept the things I cannot change and do my best to change the things I can.