Today, my BDD was out in full force.
Sitting on the bus, a voice in my head repeated: “Fattie. Fattie. What happened? You were so good last week. One piece of toast a day! You can do it again! Maybe half! Do you want to stay like this? Fattie? Look at yourself. Fattie.”
It was all I could do to not scream “SHUT UP!” at the voice in my head.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shiny surface.
There is a reason why I don’t own a mirror big enough to see my body.
It took some mental wrangling to get myself to eat when I got home. Hell, I’m still hungry. But I’m also trying to shut that voice up again so I can eat in peace.
I mean, I was too sick to eat last week and the voice HEAPS PRAISE on that
It’s not easy. It’s not simple.
But it’s everyday.
… I better eat so I won’t get sick again.
I almost fainted getting on my last bus. Every movement induces even more nausea than the last. But the most alarming thing was a compliment today, on my weight loss.
I’ve been sick long enough to lose weight enough that it’s noticeable.
I still don’t know what the cause of this is. And it’s not letting up.
I managed to find some old nausea pills in the medicine drawer. After fighting with the front, which is jamming the drawer in and falling off at the same time, I had them in hand. Prescription, too—good stuff. Right now I’m praying that it works, and quickly.
My fantasies are occupied with visions of cheese and rice—my go to on a hard day, but in the last few days, an impossibility. I read articles about the aesthetics of food, making notes and experiencing the meal vicariously.
Come on, pill. Please work.