Boy Interrupted

I think that it is terrible that I have to eat to stay alive. I think about it almost all the time. Almost all day long. Sometimes when I eat pizza, I rip it into pieces, and squeeze the pieces to get rid of the grease. I feel it on my fingers and I feel nauseous. When I eat a sandwich, there is a voice that tells me those two pieces of bread and the thin film of peanut butter holding them together is more than enough to last twelve hours. There is a voice that tells me I am an imbecilic, deranged cow who can’t even stand to follow one set of guidelines. “Don’t you want to be thin, you stupid fuck?” He asks me all the time. It’s better not to answer. These days, the questions are more like suggestions than demands. I don’t know if I am getting better, or just getting tired. There are days that I forget to starve myself. I am counting calories but forget to stop at four hundred, five hundred, even six hundred. I remember these things when I lay in bed at night. But I am too tired to dwell on them.