The Cult Of Ana

How funny it is for someone who is so obsessed with being empty, I find myself telling you over and over again “I only feel alive when you’re inside me.” Yesterday afternoon as I touched myself, I filmed it. After coming four times I had almost fallen asleep, but then I remembered. I grabbed my iPhone, plugged in some headphones, and watched. After, I thought to myself “What a great pussy. Looks decent. Attractive, even. The next one is lucky he gets to look at down at that. My stomach looks okay, but it would look even better concave. Where are my ribs? Where have my protruding collar bones taken off to?” I laid on my back in bed for an hour and 10 minutes, my arm draped over my eyes to shield them from the sunlight seeping in through the pink blanket I used as a substitute for curtains, willing sleep to gently caress me. Finally my alarm for 5:30pm went off and I got in the shower. As the hot water boiled my skin pink, I could feel my nipples perk up. I looked down and remarked “Remember when you guys were A cups?”

The question had procured shortly after the “A cup” comment: When will I ever be happy with the here-and-now body? The body that exists at this very second? I always found myself complimenting what was, admiring what could be. Honestly, I think that’s just what Ana does to you. She takes away all thought and feeling of current contentment. Forever willing yourself away, your thoughts chipping off layer after layer of pride and confidence. Even after the recovery, I find myself thinking of starvation every day, as a way to cope with never feeling accomplished with anything I do.

When did I start calling her Ana, anyway? And when did I start referring to it as “her”? How stupid of me to give this disease any remnants of some kind of power, let alone human power. She is my god now, though. Every naked chance I get, I pray to her. “Take this flesh away. I want to be nothing but bone and blood and empty bowels. Rid me of this shit sack I call a body. Make me empty. Make me pure again.” It’s like a cult. She has brainwashed me. All of us. As if to say that at some point we had been initiated into some kind of suicide gang; implying that fainting after a three day water and Diet Coke fast, or blacking out during a three mile run due to dehydration is in any way deserving of a “good job” and reward. This is one clique you do not want to be a part of. Everyone wants out. It may not seem that way because of the obsession with it, but we all want these bridges to be burned. Even the ones who so desperately cling to her. Even me.

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