Musings: Eat

I don’t worship numbers anymore. 

We measure food, measure clothes, measure bodies.

I don’t measure my food, my clothes, my body.

I estimate all numbers, except the amount of space, in days, since I last tried to erase my food to fit my clothes and control my body.

I think I’ve earned this ability to estimate, but-

The estimation of others splits my brain with their observation, sends me back to measuring.

Oh. Shits different.

So I try to fix it. I scramble, rather.

I measure, and it all comes back.

Is this enough? Is this too much? Okay, but more. Try more. 

But there’s still less of me. I can feel it now.

My ribs poke me as I twist out of bed. I wear pants measured in a smaller number, and other internal structures start to push my body away from them, create space even when the zip of the zipper means there should be none. 

I feel ashamed. I try more, but I’m still less.  The observations crawl into new spaces of my body. 

I feel like less because I should know more. I should do more. 

I don’t live in a empty space. Things aren’t perfect but I can manage. Why can’t I just manage this?

It’s simple, truly. There is no amount of awareness that won’t throw me back into obsession. Straddling that line is like straddling Satan himself. 

How do you increase without measuring, and then, how to be okay with an increase? 

Huh. 

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