A whole year has passed since i was admitted to hospital for this eating disorder. The 8th of October, i can't believe it's been that long.

I remember it clearly. The room in which they took me, the bed, wardrobe, desk, all boxed between those four enclosed walls. A window that only opened so far, to prevent suicide attempts. Still, on many occasions it didn't stop me from pushing bags or tissues filled with vomit through the small gap, dropping them down into the path and flowerbeds below.

I remember the bag search. The nurse writing down everything i'd brought; face cream, makeup, clothes, paper, pens...my insulin and blood tester taken away for their supervision.

The first meal was a half portion of jacket potato, baked beans and grated cheese. With a cup of orange juice, and then fruit and a block of vanilla ice cream. I felt terrible afterwards, utterly revolting, calories and nutrients floating through me, interupting months of emptiness.

The other patients came to see me, and i was so shy. I just wanted to hide. I always want to hide. But i set up a smile and asked them their stories, shared a little. I sympathised, understood, wanted to help. I would take on their pain just to set them free, to let them see what i could see. Their promise, the kindness, individuality or talent.

I took elasticated wastebands and comfortable pull overs, preperation for the weight-gain. Moving music to soothe the voices, books to dissolve unpure thoughts, slipping between the lines of another world. I was going to get better, i was going to try and it would be okay. I made that promise.

The laxatives and water loading came later. It just became so hard. Silently dissolving in panic, a mouth stapled shut to stop the screams. I wasn't important, suffering without a sound. I did what i was told, put the food into my mouth and swallowed, sat without a fuss, and cried at night when the lights were out.

Oh how i've let myself down, and everyone else around me, watching from the sidelines with sympathy. Again and again, always protesting that next time would be different, the next day, next morning. But everytime i tried to stitch myself together the threads unraveled. I eventually gave up, with exhaustion, perhaps fear. I came unstuck from the idea that i could be anything more that this. This disgusting excuse for a person.

I can't look directly at myself, in the mirror, stand and really look. Instead i cast my eyes down, over the lumps and bumps, pausing over the bulge of my stomach, the spread of unwanted fat on my thighs. I want to shrink. Shrink away to nothing. Forever trying to erase myself. Creating wounds and scars on the outside to distract from the character inside. A character i hate. Throwing away hope, bleeding dreams. Grinding myself down to just grains of dirt.

Another year of wasted opportunities, time, money, life.
Another year of sickness.
Of sadness, and depression.

I shouldn't even be here anymore.