Reasons

I think that my boyfriend is the only person that ever asks me how I am. At home, no one is interested. It isn’t just me, we don’t ask each other at all. We don’t say that we love each other. Just saying it…it’s a big thing. An emotional moment, or for reassurance.

Well, even though they never ask, I’m not okay.

I’m thinking of kcals and food the entire time, and when I’m not I’m either purging or cutting. That isn’t okay.

I’ve asked for help, I asked them for help a long time ago and it got to the point where I broke and went to the doctor myself. They didn’t want the cracks in our family on paper. In the open. They didn’t want to accept the cracks, even though really, they knew they were there. More than that, they knew that we were living on the cracks. In the cracks. F**k, we are the cracks.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. They never ask.

If they talked to each other, they would know I have eating problems. I mean, my mum found a bag of food that I had aparently eaten, and she gave me an excuse which I just agreed to. My dad found an empty packet of laxatives that he threw away (I found it in the bin and stole it back). They know that I’ve been dieting since before I was ten. Surely, surely, it’s obvious.

Even so, they don’t want to see it.

They never blink when I skip meals. When I’m suddenly feeling mysteriously sick at meal times.

Tomorrow I get my results and the questionairres. Tomorrow I’m going to have to give them some information to ease their conscience and to satisfy their curiosity. I’ll have to make it up because the whole thing’s aparantly about eating issues.

I’m thinking…are they worth it? I pretend to be okay for them, not for me. It makes no difference to me. Maybe I should just not eat, not be happy and not pretend anymore. They don’t give a s**t, so why should I? If they ask, I’ll say that I’m just not hungry, that I’m too upset, too angry, too whatever.

My anger has been building inside of me, and I don’t think I can hold it any longer. I hate everything that I find myself watching. My dad being patronising (that’s when he is here, when he isn’t in whatever country working), my mum drinking and smoking herself to death.

She’s drunk every night and I feel like I’m watching a piece of my heart blacken and poison me. What was so good before…what I loved so much, I have no respect for. Only contempt. And it hurts. Because as much as I resent her for her slow suicide and her slurring, she is everything I have ever known, and I’m just watching her die. Slowly.

It’s like watching a tragedy that you haven’t ever watched before, but someone’s already told you the ending.

The heroine dies.