Tuesday, July 27, 2010


I can't start with a carefully honed history of my eating disorder or a nuanced explanation of the neuropsychological or existential or psychological underpinnings of my eating disorder or any one else's eating disorder. I can't offer a definitive list of What An Eating Disorder Is and What An Eating Disorder Is Not, partially because no such lists exist and partially because I lack the colossal emotional/intellectual energy making such lists would entail.

It's well within the realm of possibility that three people will ever read this, and that's okay. I started this because it's been roughly a year since I've been discharged from residential treatment for bulimia, and though I am doing well, I am also so tired of fighting eating disordered thoughts every single day that I want to scream. So here's an outlet, I suppose. I'm not going for emo ramblings of how ~*hard*~ recovery is. Though it is without a doubt the most difficult thing I've ever attempted, that's besides the point, and it's also boring. I mostly just want to write about this because it dominates my life, because the eating disorder and the ensuing recovery have been the most formative experiences of my life. I write if only because it's impossible not to. Also, I have to say that I find eating disorders sheerly fascinating on an intellectual level, so there's tons of interesting theories waiting to be expounded upon out there in the philosophical ether.

Anyway. The beginning and middle of this poem encapsulates where I'm at right now, and the end is just lovely.

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

-- e.e. cummings

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