Strawberry donuts.

[trigger warning: eating disorders]
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It's another day I'm counting.

The nutrients I take in don't go

past a certain number anymore,

even though I want them to.

I didn't plan this relapse.

I don't want to claim it as real,

but it is.

I can't explain it,

when disordered thoughts morph

over a period of eight years and I still

haven't been diagnosed because

hey, I'm "technically" obese.

Oh wait, I'm just overweight now,

my BMI a turn signal I'm trying

to listen to and follow,

yet no one lets me merge.

They say, "stay in your lane".

I hear "she's not sick enough".

Some day, I'll faint.

Some day, I won't be in control.

Who will really notice?

All they'll notice is that

"She's been eating healthier lately"

"She looks really good"

"I've seen her eat plenty"

Perhaps the shame will

bury me before then.

Eating has quickly become less

and less manageable.

I never meant it to be an enemy.

The anxiety crawls out of

my throat when the noodles

pile up on my plate,

a meal prepared by someone else,

and I can't - I can't measure any of it.

I could never measure my

sadness accurately anyway.

In the middle of the night,

I miss the ease of not worrying

about the morning.

About weekends where there'd

be fresh donuts on the counter,

or bagels from the market,

and it would make me smile.

Actually smile.

But wait, stop right there.

It's not about the food.

Not really.

It never was.

It's not about the weight either.

Not really.

It's about

everything else,

the expansive, explosive nature

of the world

that I cannot control

at 2 AM (and all the other times).

It's about the direction I crave

and the not knowing and the

way the future taunts me like

the next disappointment.

It's not about eating

or the lack thereof.

It never really was.