I tell him I have an eating disorder. Two actually if it’s possible—compulsive over-eating and anorexia. I don’t think he believes me ... or at least he doesn’t take it seriously. You see, I’m still fat. He doesn’t see just skin and bones, so I must be crazy. I am technically obese—that word sickens me. I used to be so light ... I really was anorexic shortly after I had my son eleven years ago. Back then I really hated myself, had major issues. I was promiscuous—didn’t take care of myself—didn’t care. He didn’t know me then. Now, I’m older and have dealt with most of those issues. I went to therapy—it helped. I put on weight. A LOT of weight. I realize now that it was to cover the body that men saw back then—to stop them from giving me that kind of attention. Now, I’m at the other extreme. Where have I gone? I am lost beneath layers of fat. People don’t see me for who I am anymore. I want to be what I once was—passing a mirror causes panic. Trying on clothes ... panic. Eating ... panic. I don’t talk to him about it anymore. It makes it worse for me that he can’t see it. I’ve done everything in my life on my own. I have tried for so long to get someone else to take the reigns ... I believe now that.
