Puzzle

You do your puzzle books to stave off the thoughts and I hide behind a screen of one sort or another. I know your mind is on food - how much you crave it and how "the other you" forbids you to eat it or if you do, to enjoy it. You mentioned to me yesterday how frightened you are to admit to craving food - that just saying the words drains you and fills you with a numb, impotent sort of terror - that if you cave in, you'll never stop. Not stop ever - that you'll go on bingeing and a new sickness will take the place of the anorexia. I suppose it might. Would I worry so much about that? I think it would be a different worry. More a mortification at the self-hatred I know you'd feel - more than you do already in these new days we are living.

The puzzles block you. Stop you crying, lashing out:

frown wail howl hate scream break panic worry fear.

But I seem to have lost the ability to hide so well. I can't hide from myself and a large part of me is terrified ALL. THE. TIME. I hate this. I have to squash myself, sacrifice myself, bottle and bury and dredge up from the pit of my heart the ability to be strong. I am not used to this. I am so filled with fear and my mind is screaming. Every minute of every day I long to fall apart - the draw is powerful and nags at me. Fall down; lie down; snap; cry; run away; shout; give up; say mean mean mean things;

frown wail howl hate scream break panic worry fear.

I want those reactions. Not this straight-backed, calm, gently smiling, articulate, reassuring Mother. I miss me. And I miss you. Mostly I miss you.

If I could have you back, I would gladly stay like this forever. But it's hard, darling. I am frightened of failing you. Of going blind with rage and fear, of falling over in despair and never being able to get up again. Not metaphorically, either. That my bones will buckle, my muscles wither, my body collapse with worry and this hideous, nauseating, pervading exhaustion. And I will have failed you.

I see you trying to master the fear. Watching your face is like having your feelings painted in the sky - gigantic, unmissable messages. You chew for interminable lengths of time, swilling that terrible stuff/beautiful nourishment/life-saving sustenance around your mouth and between your molars. You swallow the medicinefood and you try so hard to chat with me and watch the telly and be normal - I can see you trying so hard to be normal - to answer me civilly when you feel like murder, to maintain your dignity while you crave destruction, to contain your hysterical self within your skin. But it's all a bit of a charade for now, I think. It's fake-it-to-make-it. It's like AA for anoerxics. It's good. I'm proud of you.

If I ever meet that man, I will kill him and go to prison dancing.