an old diary entry

Sometimes I wonder if my eating disorder is not an eating disorder at all, but rather a disordered perception of reality, of instinct, of truth. I’ve spent hours of my meagre existence pondering over truth; I’ve spent years entertaining the curiosities of right versus wrong and good versus bad, of beauty versus atrocity and black versus white. What the world knows to be relative, I see as absolute – I am bound by rules and tethered by definitions; words, secrets, mysteries, answers that refuse to bend backwards and change. It puzzles me greatly, knowing that despite being a creature of habit and a being of tradition, I am in search of the truths reaped by the changes in everyday life. I cannot accept the truth I seek, I live only with the truths I’ve known.
Perhaps anorexia is just my own shattered perception manifested into a crippling disease. But my desire to be small, fragile, dainty is only the surface of a bigger desire, one that might not have anything to do with eating, but rather, with something much more nebulous and far more difficult to fully comprehend.

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