Some of us use the body to convey the things for which we cannot find words. You will never find a lover so careful, so attentive, so unconditionally present and concerned only with you.
Nothing will ever be so close to you again. The sickness occupies your every thought, breathe like a lover at your ear the sickness stands at your shoulder in the mirror, absorbed with your body, each inch of skin and flesh, and you let it work you over, touch you with rough hands that thrill. You cannot help, when sleep begins to touch your eyes, but to wonder: What if? What if? And in that question, there is a longing, too much like the longing of a young girl in love. Death is at your shoulder, death is your shadow, your scent, your waking and dreaming companion. When you are sick like this you begin to wonder too much. Some fear death, some seek it, but it is in our human nature to wonder at the limits of human life, at least. The human mind continually returns and returns to death, to mortality, immortality, damnation, salvation. ― Marya Hornbacher, quote from Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia To hear women tell it we're ethereal beings who eat with the greatest distaste, scraping scraps of food between our teeth with our upper lips curled. Food makes us queasy, food makes us itchy, food is too messy, all I really like to eat is celery. To hear women tell it, we're never hungry.
I heard it in the hospital, that terrible ironic whine from the chapped lips of women starving to death, But I'm not hun-greeee. Oh, I'm Starving, I haven't eaten all day, I think I'll have a great big piece of lettuce, I'm not hungry, I don't like to eat in the morning (in the afternoon, in the evening, on Tuesdays, when my nails aren't painted, when my shin hurts, when it's raining, when it's sunny, on national holidays, after or before 2 A.M.). I hear this in schools all over the country, in cafés and restaurants, in bars, on the Internet, for Pete's sake, on buses, on sidewalks: Women yammering about how little they eat.
0 kommentar(er)
