May 4, 2011 § Leave a comment

‘There can be no higher law in journalism than to tell the truth and shame the devil.’

I certainly couldn’t claim to be a journalist. What this is is an explanation of sorts, for myself and anyone else who cares to read it. I used to find that telling other people my thoughts was something of a reductio ad absurdum process. The snag is when what I feel is too shameful to open my mouth and speak about it. Sometimes it’s even more of a quandary. I can get my jaw wide enough but the sounds don’t come out and something inside me wants to muffle them with anything they can lay their grasp upon.

It struck me, over the course of the last week or so that those thoughts, those hands, aren’t really mine. Well, they are, but they are possessed. I went away for the weekend, to a new city, a new country. Thinking about spending two days in a new place with old friends in the days before I left filled me with crippling fear. Enough of my brain could scrape together the rationality to realise that that is the exact opposite of what I want to be.

When I think of what I want to be and become and do with my life, I think of travel and adventure, in whatever way I can find, for as long as I can find it. What I had started to think, in the grip of this possession, was that the unknown would kill me. If I didn’t (or couldn’t) prop myself up with control of what I ate, I would be exposed as without control and crumble to nothing. In that realisation, I found that something else had taken control. What I turn to for the comfort of control is leading me in exactly the opposite direction from where I am trying to head.

Today I talked about how I view my actions. How I feel I will be judged as greedy, needy, out of control, exposed as someone who can’t control their eating and judged as weak. If I was to see someone else do the same thing I would not think anything of it. While I know that naming this thing is at risk of giving it form and therefore power, I know that it already has that. It doesn’t matter all that much what the name is, the criteria is for what I have. Knowledge might be power for determining whether a doctor would call this disordered eating, binge eating, non-purging bulimia or even bulimia (And frankly I’m still scared witless of it ever, really really, being one of those things) but for the moment the hold it has is still the same.

Whatever it is, that whispers in my ear that I am not enough, I am going to expose and shame until it shrivels and dies. It is not me.

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