Anorexia for the Anorexic.

Funny.

I haven’t written a journal in a while and I have deleted almost all of my previous posts, so you probably don’t know anything about me. Well, I am human, like most humans who are imperfect. I am young woman, like most young women who have psychological issues, personal situations and people that surround her who are simply not worth her time. That’s where my mother comes in.

Yeah, most people say a mother should be like your best friend and I have indeed, given her all of the opportunities possible for her to try and become one, but when the time comes for limits to appear, they simply do.

It’s funny, though—because I just remembered something from my past that is quite relevant to my situation in the present.

I was recently diagnosed with hypoglycemia when I ended up in the hospital last month for fainting and being slightly unconscious. I was not eating healthy at all. I had too many things going (hence the reason why I wasn’t writing anything)—way to occupied doing theater, dancing and keeping up with school, that I barely had time to eat. I didn’t eat breakfast because I didn’t have time to make any when I had to take the bus and train to go to College. My mother simply refused to take me when it’s only fifteen minutes away from home, but since I had to take the bus, fifteen minutes turned into an hour and a half—sometimes two hours. I almost didn’t have lunch because sometimes if I did, I’d be out of money and I had to take theater classes then, so if I had lunch, I couldn’t have dinner before my class and I ended up feeling worse.

I can also calmly say I didn’t care that much at all because I thought I was fat.

But, why did I need to think I was fat? It wasn’t because of the commercials where what they show almost every time were skinny white girls with perfect skin—though I’m not saying they don’t show them because they do, but it had nothing to do with that. It had to do with the fact that the people around me constantly thought I was fat. I didn’t eat that much before, so I started eating less. At first I didn’t care…until my mother said I was fat.

It hurt.

Then she said it again. And again.

I stopped eating a little. By summer I dropped ten pounds feeding off nutri-grain bars only for the whole day. I knew it was wrong, so I told my mother to please take me to a nutritionist because I was aware that I wasn’t eating right. Then she said the word “anorexic”, not directly, but along the lines of “why are you obsessed with your weight? Are you an anorexic?” I stood there like: “what the hell is she talking about?” In reality I ignored it, of course. She didn’t take me to see a nutritionist.

Until the hospital thing happened.

She paid I don’t know how much money…for a doctor to take a lot of tests on me—blood tests, pregnancy tests, GTT tests, plus the money for the hospital care. They put me in a lot of pain with needles and let me tell you, I am not afraid of needles, but they probably pinched every vain they could find, and all of that just to tell me and my mom that I had to see a nutritionist because I wasn’t eating right.

I weighted myself last night. I dropped another ten pounds.

The reason why I stopped eating I know it’s because my mother told me I was fat. I don’t care about anybody else’s opinion, but my mother’s, when it comes to me personally.

So, it’s just funny. It’s funny because that night I fainted, she told me at the hospital that I was fine with the body I have—that I was an anorexic and that I was really thin, so I should eat more.

I leave terms like “bulimic”, “crazy”, “anorexic”, “bipolar”, “bitch”, and etcetera for people that really want them to be.