Returned to work today, someone is eating french fries and I need to vomit from the grease in the air, cloying, and my panic simmers just below the surface and I fear the airgrease is climbing in through my pores. Will I smell like french fries? Are my cells expanding from the molecules of monosaturated calories? Sweaty, winding, laden, slippery and polluting. The thought frenzies my distant heart and I feel the vibration climbing, an invasive vine seizing, trembletrembletremble. Creeps close to faintly pulsing carotid artery, thin skin, always a problem.
I have not eaten anything since Wednesday night, 36 hours. Coffee, water, pills. I am at my deepest. Darkest. I have carved into my right thigh. “FAT”, for that is all I have to say, now. The blade is in my bag so I can add to the rash of scratchings, red and raised, pain that satisfies. I have no plans to eat. 15 hours of yoga training this weekend, and I don’t know how I will make it. The nausea is constant, permeating. The shivershiver from the inside out is constant. My limbs are quivering imperceptibly, my skin aches, my joints ache, my head separated from my body months ago and floats somewhere over my right shoulder and my heart is nothing but a memory, a ghost pulse.
I have failed everything. If I were enough substance to be anything at all, then I would be a failure. But I am not even deserving of the completing validation of a noun. I have simply failed, and this body is nothing to me.
