Page 100 of For Wrath and Redemption
I sigh and press my hand to my stomach as it starts to roil and twist. It always does this when thoughts like these threaten to overwhelm me. Guilt and loss and regret.
And jealousy. Always the fucking jealousy. Always the anger.
It’s toxic.
Iam toxic.
My anxiety swells like bricks being stacked quickly on my chest. Crushing me. Burying me. Reminding me that I’m not enough. That I never will be. I’m ugly and twisted inside. I’m full of hate. I’m defective. It’s all my fault.
I fist my hands and squeeze them, trying my best to breathe through the maelstrom of insults swirling violently in my head. Ugly. Twisted. Evil.
Shut up.
I flex my toes into the floor.
Shutup.
I train my ear to the muffled music in the hallway.
Shut up!
Inhale and exhale. Picture a chess board. Dig my nails into my palms.
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
I try so fucking hard, and like so often these days, I fail.
Slowly, I stand from the couch and walk to the bathroom. I kneel, tuck my hair into the back of my shirt, then make myself vomit into the toilet. I feel better knowing my stomach is empty. I calm just picturing a caloric deficit.
And then I hate myself even more.
I know what this does to my body. I know the dangers. I’ve always known. But reminding myself of them only makes it worse. It just fuels those feelings of failure. It shines light on my inadequacies.
How can I be expected to care about long-term damage when I hate myself?
I stand. Wash my hands. Rinse my mouth in the sink. I rinse it two more times. I grab Sav’s toothpaste, then curse myself for forgetting my small toiletry bag in the hotel suite. My toothpaste is gentle on enamel. Sav’s is whitening. I squirt some on my finger and rub it all over my tongue, shoving as far back as I can reach. I fill my mouth with water from the tap for a fourth time, gargle with it, then spit it out. Then I make myself look into the mirror.
I keep my eyes only on my face.
I force a smile.
I run my tongue over the backs of my teeth.
I’m still paying off the dental work I had done last year. I don’t want to ruin it. Then I swallow twice and bring my hand up to push on my throat. It doesn’t hurt. It’s not sore, at least not in the way that causes concern. Not in the way it did last time. I bend over and gulp down some more water from the sink. I stand, squeeze my eyes shut and breathe again.
It’s not out of control. I can handle this. I’ve gotten better before. I can do it again. It’s not as bad as it was.
As long as I start now, it won’t get that bad again.
I walk to the fridge and take out a bottle of water, then grab an electrolyte package from my bag. I pour the package into the water, give it a shake, and drink it. I try not to picture the cool liquid pooling into my empty stomach. I try not to fixate on it.
Then, because I’m feeling particularly bold, I grab something from the food display on the counter and make myself eat it slowly. Bite, chew, swallow, bite, chew, swallow, over and over, until it’s gone. I try not to think about the caloric intake of a medium-sized blueberry muffin. I try not to add it to the green smoothie I had earlier despite the fact I just emptied my stomach into the toilet.
It's all going to be fine.
I’m going to keep this muffin down. I won’t think about how manycalories I have to burn in the morning. I won’t obsess over my size, or my appearance, or my façade of perfection. I won’t tell myself that it affects my worth as a fucking human being.
I’m a human being with a body. The body does not define me as a human being.
