I am back in community space and my stomach hurts.
Once upon a time I used to eat. I even used to like to eat. I used to bake the best tarte aux pêches and dunk crackers in my cocoa or tea, and flip heavenly, airy crêpes with my eyes closed. I had a secret recipe for Sacher torte. I used to savor fresh, hot croissants on Sunday mornings with Matthias.
I used to eat. I used to like to eat, then I grew scared to eat, ceased to eat. Now my stomach hurts; I have been anorexic so long that I have forgotten how to eat.
Dinner is over, my first real meal in years. But the anxiety has just begun. It is 7:28. The day is settling down but my feet, heart, and mind are racing.
Direct Care says:
Anna, sit down please. Stop pacing like that. You’re making everybody uncomfortable.
But I cannot. I am going to be sick.
I need to step outside.
You cannot.
No, I cannot breathe. I cannot stay indoors, sit down, or stop pacing. Or do this. I want my anorexia back! I want to leave!
The clock hits 7:30. The doorbell rings.