TW – Eating Disorder
It’s happening again. The universe is becoming an unsolvable mathematical equation, except not the intriguing or mysterious kind—just an unconstrained minimisation problem. A constant nuisance. Every thought is replaced by numbers, calculations, bargaining. If thinking burned calories, I would have disappeared by now.
Breakfast starts at the thought of last night’s dinner. I can still feel it sitting in my stomach, pressing against my ribs like a mistake. I pull out my phone, swipe open the notes app, and check yesterday’s total. If I went over 1200, today will have to compensate. I can borrow from tomorrow too, but that’s a dangerous game. I stand before the fridge, the cold air biting at my skin, the door handle, an anchor. Choices line the shelves, but I close it without reaching for anything. Coffee will do. The first sip is warmth, the second a reminder. By the third, my stomach has learned its lesson.
By noon, my hands are cold. My body is slow. The world feels sharp, edges too bright, the hunger is loud, but caffeine is louder. So, lunch becomes a performance and the bitter americano is my prop. My friends unwrap sandwiches, crisp lettuce peeking from soft bread, but I only nod along to their conversations, lift my cup, and pretend. They chew, swallow, talk. I sip, swallow, smile.
They don’t ask anymore. Maybe they don’t notice. Or maybe they do.
The grocery store is a battlefield disguised as aisles. I move through it like a ghost, fingers tracing the contours of choices I can’t make. Labels blur under the fluorescent lights, numbers stacking on top of numbers. This one has too much. That one, is not enough. I reach for the darkest bread, the safest one. The lowest-calorie yogurt, the smallest package of almonds. A balance sheet camouflaged as a shopping list. At the checkout, the beep of the scanner feels accusatory. The cashier doesn’t say anything. They never do. I wonder if they know. If they see the careful selections, the silent rules, the quiet war waged in the aisles.
Evening means movement. It has to. I need to earn the right to eat, to balance the equation my body is constantly writing. But I need something first. A pre-workout? More caffeine? Or maybe a banana, something real, something solid. A compromise. The gym smells like sweat and steel. The music is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the thoughts. I push harder. More reps, more miles, more proof. My body shakes, but I welcome it. If I push past the burn, past the exhaustion, maybe I will feel lighter. Maybe the numbers will be better tomorrow.
Dinner is an unraveling negotiation. The plate in front of me is both question and answer. I tell myself I will eat. The meal is prepared with intent, every portion considered, every ingredient accounted for. I sit before it, the fork balanced between my fingers like a question mark. I tell myself I will eat. The first bite is a betrayal. I tell myself I will eat. The second, guilt. I tell myself I will eat. By the third, the weight of it presses too hard. I tell myself I cannot eat.
My hands shake. My breath catches. The walls of the bathroom feel too close, the tiles cold under my knees. I exhale. Relief. Regret. Resolution.
Afterward, I stand in front of the mirror. My fingers press into the curve of my waist, tracing its shape, measuring, evaluating. I step onto the scale, the number blinking back at me in quiet confirmation. A small victory.
I go to bed thinking of breakfast. I have food only for thought.
Resources to help you:
The Queensland Eating Disorder Service (QuEDS) phone line (07) 3114 0809 (operates from 9am-4pm, Monday to Friday)
Butterfly 1800 33 4673 (8am – midnight (AEST/AEDT), 7 days a week)
QUT Clinics 07 3138 9777
The Eating Disorder Recovery Podcast by Dr Janean Anderson
The Mindful Dietitian by Fiona Sutherland
Butterfly: Let’s Talk by The Butterfly Foundation
