My aunt was really getting stressed out from me not eating and she doesn’t even know that the last day I ate was Monday. I had no desire to eat, but I agreed to go to a local seafood place, where I managed to choke down a half a bowl of clam chowder and a couple bites of coleslaw. I wanted to throw up as soon as I finished but, because we were in the car driving home, I didn’t have the opportunity.
She also got in contact with a friend, whose daughter used to be anorexic, and asked about a med that helped her eat. It turns out that it was just a run-of-the-mill antidepressant.
Not that I would have taken it anyway.
I haven’t come out and straight up told her that I currently have no desire to recover from my anorexia and that I am quite content with the prospect of it killing me. I’m pretty sure that she would force me to go to the hospital if I were that honest with her. She knows I’m sick, but not just how sick.
I used to love food. It makes me sad (well, sadder) when I think about how much I hate eating now.