Maybe I'm just sliding back into depression again. I hope not, but maybe.
I was going to write you an email, (in the course of my secret blog, I've gotten used to using 'you' ambiguously, to mean someone in particular but not necessarily the same person each time, or even to mean more than one person at once. In short, don't assume 'you' is you, even if at one point it was) but I decided I'd write here instead.
I fell, yesterday. I made a mistake. I allowed myself to be manipulated. I tried, I tried to express the following:
When I try to talk about your eating, at least one of these things happen:
- I get callous and care-less in an effort to not let it penetrate too far.
- You don't tell me the truth.
- You get angry or irritated or upset.
I can't help. This, this whole thing, is your blind spot. You don't have any clarity, I think. That's the most profound illusion, that there's some reality that you're always in contact with even if you don't follow it. No, there is no reality, you're contacting something else masquerading as reality, just like everyone else is. Don't trust it.
When I came into the kitchen and saw the truly pathetic amount of food you had in that bowl yesterday... that was the worst feeling. It didn't make me angry, or annoyed, it just made me so... sad. Really really sad. I resolved not to discuss it, feeling too hopeless to even try to engage with it. I ate. I hated it, I wanted to spit it out. Every mouthful was full of the knowledge that I was eating the food you had rejected.
Of course, you wouldn't let me keep silent. I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for me burning my hands on the plate.
This is where I fell. I allowed my words to be twisted, as they have been so many times before. The moment there's enough ambiguity, the misinterpretation is enacted. You heard what you wanted to hear. You resolved that, to me, it no longer existed.
I lost it, there, walking down the hill. I don't know if you noticed. "It's not yours," "you can't just take it away." That's not how it works. It's obvious. Anyone who spends enough time with you will notice. Earlier, you'd said I wouldn't even know if you hadn't told me. I find it amazing that you believe that. It's almost comic. How stupid must you think I am?
And what's more, how dare you. Has it somehow escaped you that this is incredibly difficult for me? Do you know how hard I try to make it this easy for you? Do you know how it feels to have a mouth full of someone else's self-destruction? Do you know how it feels to know that I'm helping you to do it? That I'm complicit? I try so hard for you, and what do I get in return? The tolerance of a bear trap, and constant evasion. The least you could do is not make me feel like shit for trying to help. I'm not that awful, really, I'm not.
It doesn't have to be like this. Just stop treating me like I'm your enemy. I asked for honesty partially because I don't let secrecy alone. I pick at it. Don't talk to me like a few chips, an apple, and a meagre dinner is somehow going to make me happy. "At least I'm eating something." isn't much consolation I'm afraid. Tell me you ate so little because you're trying not to eat more than x calories a day. It's simple, it's true. I can feel what it makes me feel and then move on. I can deal with it. Rather than all this dishonesty and guessing.
And, please, stop thinking you can protect me from it. You can't. Trying only hurts me more.
~~~
It makes me want to do things. I want to perform, I want to make art. I want to never eat when I'm with you. I want to consume all the calories you cut out. I want to fast. I want to do all of this. But I know you won't let me. Oh the irony.
