For that matter, you never really know why you hate yourself. There may be an event, but you can never really figure it out why you, of all humans, should be more deserving of that special breed of vindictive spiteful hatred that we heap upon ourselves in return for eating a potato chip. And for me, that potato chip represented everything I knew myself to be: fat, wasteful, toxic and ugly, the list went on.
I pinched my cheeks, convinced that the chip had been magically transformed into three pounds of fat and then magically transported to my cheeks just so everyone could know what I had done. Because, as close to a religion your eating disorder may be, there is one thing above all that you believe: sin is portrayed on the body, and every bite of food that you fundamentally do not deserve is sin. Rationally, intellectually, you know that this is not so, that people are not cursed to be ugly and fat because they are bad people, but we do not happen to be rational animals. We know, with the certainty that one knows the sky is blue, that we personally are the most horrible people to walk the good Earth and we do not so much as deserve air. If we could stop breathing, we likely would. But we cannot, and so we starve.
And our gradual disappearance, an agonizingly slow drop on the scale, shows that we know how awful we are, and we are making an attempt to repair it....
But you never know just why. All you know is what you are, and that what you are must be changed, erased, annihilated in any conceivable way. Though sometimes you wonder, caught in your addiction as you are, why it was you.... You wonder, and wonder, and wonder.
Would I have traded being happy for this?
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