hunger

I'm loath to admit how hungry I am, both in the literal and metaphorical manner. Thing is, I deny and deny and deny it. What right have I to be hungry, to want, to need? The act of needing seems so infantile and weak, creating an unbearable vulnerability within me that I can do without. Need. I don't even like the word, the shape my face makes when I say it. It's so...so Cruella de Vil.

And then I was interrupted.

Just like that. No warning. Came a child down the stairs in need of one thing or another, usually reassurance, calm  in the middle of the night. Of course a child's needs trump all others, so I gave him what he needed; a back scratch, a hug, tenderness, love, and a dash of impatience. My solitude, or my illusion of solitude got shattered.

Now I sit here with shaky hands and an arrhythmic heart, having spent the past thirty minutes puking. I'm high as hell, that after-purge wasted feeling. Man. I don't even care that I barfed really, only that I'll have to share it with my "accountability" peeps.

Besides, I know I'm getting smaller, though I'm not going to weigh myself to see how much smaller. In truth, I don't want to reach a goal weight because then it'd be over, the quest. I want to keep chasing after that feeling. I want my emptiness to be filled with light, with something pure. I want to feel safe, to be loved, to be held, to be validated. My body reflects my rebellion and my pain, both of which are rooted in my refusal to admit to need and vulnerability.

I seriously want to believe that I don't care.