Dancing in my Room

My grandmother just tried, yet again, to get me to eat more food at supper. I told her I had had plenty and that, really, she feeds me too much, something I’ve said before, multiple times over the past 4 years. Something my mother has told her multiple times over the past 4 years. Something she couldn’t give two flying fucks about.

She also then pulled her old argument out of her ass: the one where she thinks I just don’t eat, at all, in London because I “think you have to diet.” Which is not true. She eats on the German-Schedule. I.e. eating at precisely 8or9am, noon, and then at 5:30. Without fail. Whether she’s hungry or not. (She told me that last bit herself). I eat on the Sort-of-Makes-More-Sense Schedule. I.e. eating around breakfast time, around lunch time, and around dinner time, and then only if I’m hungry. She can’t fathom it. Hence why she gets bitchy with me when I come home from class on Wednesdays around dinner time, and I have a migraine, so I tell her I can’t eat and am, instead, going straight to bed. She takes it as an insult that I’m not shoving her food down my throat. Food which, I must say after 4 years of the same shit, has become some of the most retched stuff I have ever eaten.

So she was angry with me because, in her eyes, I hadn’t eaten enough.
She then told me that I ate more at home “over the holidays.” Again, not true. I basically ate the same, but less of it, because my fam-jam back at home employs a little something called “portion sizes.”
I told her that what she said was not true.
She then used her German-tact (WARNING! “German-tact” is non-existent when it comes to old-school old-women Germans. NOW YOU KNOW!) and told me that I -must- have eaten more because, well, silly me, I gained weight. “Oh ya, oh ya, you gained lots of weight.”

Brill.

And then people wonder why I hate my body.
Why I only take pictures of my face.
Why I hate to shop for clothes.
Why I don’t talk to boys.
Why I binge on shitty bad-for-me food at 11:30pm and then feel sick.
Why I hide food in my room like a squirrel.
Why I hate. Hate. HATE myself on a daily basis.
Why, when mom confronted me about me “eating problems” last year, and said my mascara was running and I yelled “It doesn’t matter!!” because my body’s not good enough, so why should I even bother trying with my face.
Why I think I’m depressed.
Why I’m fat.

So I picked up my salad, something I told her I was actually too full to eat, but since it was staring me in the face, I had to eat it, and took it upstairs to eat. I haven’t touched it.

I feel like shit now. I feel nauseous; I can feel a headache starting in my right temple; my stomach is doing flip flops; my mascara is running, again; and I still have to finish this essay for tomorrow (Tuesday), do readings and talk about them on Wednesday, finish another essay for Friday, start and finish an assignment for Monday, study for a midterm that’s on Monday in the same class the assignment is due, then I have my first of three presentations in that have-to-talk-to-get-a-mark class in two weeks, and no one can/will help me. It’s October. I’m overwhelmed. Already. I’m drowning.


I just…I wish, so so so much, I wish I was thin.




I can’t stop crying now, and I know I shouldn’t be crying in the first place. I’m such a baby!