I’m not so hungry anymore. I think it’s the concerta, but I’ve always forgotten to eat, only now, it’s more pronounced. Now my absentminded fault shows. People smile at the weight loss, but I’m screaming inside. I did not want this, my frame shrinking, betraying me. My body is not, can not change on me, when I do not will it. Yet it continues.
At times, I wonder if I will fade to nothing. I used to dream of fading, a ghost of memory, whisper quiet and floating. Broken little ghost girl with no more toys, tears, fears, only existence. I drift, always have. I’ve never really felt grounded to this earth, living in a waking trance, numb. Sparks of feeling come and go, birds flitting through my empty space.
These hands, this body. IS it really mine? Does it matter. I’m not sure. It’s useful, lets me haunt hallways, read books, glide from idea to idea, manic, fragile. What shame it won’t sty the way I’m used to it, the hills and valleys of my flesh soothing, familiar. Smooth breasts, rough knees, but well-known, home.
As the gentle curve of my abdomen leaves me, I fret. Shrinking, shrinking like Alice, but I can’t find the other bottle, restore myself to continue chasing my white rabbit. Where is my Mad Tea Party? I wish to dine with my Hatter.
I wonder if I will become pretty. I will never be beautiful, but pretty I can manage. I don’t want it though. More, expectations, looks, feelings. I’m not prepared for pretty. It’s good, that I’m not there yet, body still too large to fit social conventions. At least that is as it should be.
I’ll head back, find my rabbit hole, my Hatter. I’ll take tea with my March Hare and marvel in this thinly tethered, thin, dreadfully thin, existence.