I’ve killed this piece three times so far. I think the razing of yesterday’s ramblings on guilt was the last big gutting. But really, it was trite. Been there, done that. I wanted to like the paragraphs I wrote on our snow day but I don’t write descriptive dialogue very well: my imagery was stilted …
The tree is up. It has no decorations this year but there’s a two-year-old in the house so the decision to go “only lights” is a logical one. I’m not interested in playing “find the ornament” ever again. The décor is out as well; again, in a limited fashion and placed up high. The presents …
"Eating disorders are hell and they are full-time. They don’t take days off. They don’t give you a break. They’re always there, lurking, talking to you, telling you how awful you are, how much of a failure. How you have nothing to offer because you aren’t perfect yet. You aren’t thin enough..."
"...I’m not ready to change, my eating disorder tells me. I’m not perfect yet. My depression concurs since it’s decided to act up too, and where my depression goes, my anxiety follows. So, basically, I’m a big ball of triggered with the potential for some self-harm thrown in. December is hard..."
