March 18, 2011 § Leave a comment
This is my second day of sitting in my bed, sweating, shivering, watching crap telly. Yesterday was a dream, swimming between terrible programmes, tongue thick with the taste of illness.
With the influx of bugs, my appetite left and I remembered what it might be like to not want (or not want) food all the time. The feeling of not wanting for anything is addictive. That kind of satisfaction with nothingness is what I crave more than any fullness. Because I know I am capable of holding out- that I have been able to hold out- of having little or no appetite, I am petrified of it. I fear the day when I don’t want to eat at all. Previously refusing my hunger separated me from an appetite for life and got me into trouble and I don’t want that again. My appetite, however, isn’t really for food but for everything. It just gets dulled by what it can lay its hands on first.
In so many ways, I love my life. In so many ways, I am happier than I have ever been.
At the end of last summer, I really thought I had cracked it. That I had stopped the struggle between my universal hunger and what was in front of me. They felt entirely integrated- by exercise and joy and being present in my life. And suddenly, a big life change, a few mistakes and a few months later and consumption became harmful. I realised, quite definitely and quite early on, in a crystalised moment on another back step under a flat, grey sky, that suddenly, I wasn’t fuelling myself any more. What I chose was a reflection of my self worth.
Months later and many things have improved. Many wonderful things. But I am trapped again, in a compulsion I don’t fully understand or even have a name for. Writing helps make sense of all that, so that’s what I’ll be doing here. Hopefully.