Anorexia

I don't consider myself to be anorexic.  I never counted calories, abstained from drinking, traded in Diet Coke for the real thing.  My obsession revolved (s) around fat.  During the few months I embraced starvation, I subsisted on Special K and fat-free yogurt.  If I allowed myself to indulge, I would eat a corn salad for lunch, ingesting the lettuce first, nibbling on 10 or less kernels before catapulting my tray in the dirty dish reservoir.  Salad dressing was forbidden to glisten my foods, only salt and pepper allowed as safe adornments.  As the days darkened, my eating decreased, my mood swings intensified, my school focus soared.  I ran out of the house before 6 am, literally, because any loitering would be cause for weak snacking.  I smoked like a chimney, even in the brutality of the Geneva winters, cursing the brittle winds like it was the cause for my anguish.  There was a Tabac across the street from my school which sold individual cigarettes and gummy candies, only 5 centimes for each.  Passing the store twice a day was excruciating, like every cell in my body needed the candy to survive. Yet I wouldn't allow myself to weaken ... or couldn't, I don't quite know. I retreated to the library during lunch, where I conditioned my stomach to employ literature for nutrition.  I drank water after school as I walked the downtown streets, lingering as long as possible so the temptation of a full fridge at home didn't destroy my plan.  Dinner routines varied.  I sometimes took my box of Special K downstairs to the computer room, counting as I placed one flake on my tongue at a time, timing myself as each minute passed.  Only one flake per minute, or else the fear of fat flared.  The other alternative was to carry my mother's home-cooked meal (I can distinctly remember her chicken pot pie with cranberry sauce) upstairs to my room, claiming homework as the culprit - or refusing to speak at all, closing my door and waiting for the sounds of running water and dishes clanking into the dishwasher, signaling the end of another meal.  I would open my door with my tray of food in hand, slinking into the bathroom, where I watched as the toilet burped up my dinner.  I wrestled with sleep, my mind exhausted yet my stomach tempestuous.  I tried sleeping on my belly to stifle the hunger yet I was so proud of the noises trumpeting another day of my sick successes.  I didn't sleep out of hunger and happiness.