It’s easy for me to act like I don’t have control issues. To convince myself that I never actually had an eating disorder— it never got that bad. Ok, yeah, there were a few days last Christmas break where I only ate 600 calories, but that was just a couple days! It doesn’t matter that doing that almost felt good, they were isolated incidents!
Then something comes along and reminds me.
I got my wisdom teeth out on Monday. Beforehand I was absolutely.freaking.terrified. My mom didn’t understand why— she thought I was worried about the surgery going wrong. That’s what she was worried about.
Me? I was worried about being on Vicodin. About maybe losing control. About maybe not being coherent enough to remember how many calories I had eaten that day.
I had an epiphany a few months back, watching Supernatural. That alone is a really humiliating time to have an epiphany, let me tell you. It was the episode where Famine comes to town, and everyone loses control of their hunger.
Now, I spent my childhood watching NOVA documentaries on ebola and the black plague and never blinked an eye. Gore in movies generally doesn’t bother me. I’ve dissected animals, no problem, watched a mouse struggle to death in a mousetrap without feeling bad, seen pus drain out of a scar the full width of my mother’s chest into a little collection bottle meant for it— nothing.
But that episode of Supernatural made me feel like throwing up. It was the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.
Somehow I don’t think that says anything good about me.