I almost told someone.
I almost admitted that I might have a problem—that I might have an eating disorder. I almost told my aunt. I thought about what I was going to say, and I tried to prepare myself for what her reaction might be. I was going to tell her everything. I was going to say that I try my best not to eat. That if I do eat, I obsess about it all day and all night. That I hate food and how it makes me feel. That I am in a complete panic because I am going to be seen in a bathing suit soon. That the number on the scale must be decreasing each day. That I have an extreme hatred towards my own body.
I wanted relief. I wanted to relieve all the pressure. I want someone to know that I cannot be perfect. I know that I can’t be perfect, but I have this incessant desire to be perfect. I feel like it is killing my soul. I have become a person I don’t even recognize. I have isolated myself from my family and friends. I have lost interest in everything. The first year of college was the worst experience of my life. I couldn’t make friends because then I may have to explain myself. I have never felt so depressed.
We were talking about self-confidence, of all things, and I should have said something. Nothing came out. “I don’t think she would believe me.” “I don’t believe she wants to hear it.” “I don’t want to burden her with my issues.” “I don’t want to embarrass myself with my shameful secret.” Well, those are all the excuses I tell myself, day after day, but I know it isn’t the truth. The truth is that I am afraid. I’m afraid that I will be forced to stop. After all my thinking and planning, I have realized that I need this “thing.” It is my comfort and, I guess, my life.