Vent Writing 3/18/2026
Freedom
There is an emptiness in my soul where God is supposed to be. No matter how much I pray, it is never filled.
I have freedom, which means I make things worse. My original blessing is an assurance of shame.
What’s wrong with me? A broken brain and a degrading body. What am I responsible for? Everything. “Radically free” is radical failure. Evangelical guilt in drag, camp philosophy putting religious shame to shame.
Why don’t other’s see it? My life is a cosmic mistake. The gods laugh. My life is the funniest joke I’ve ever heard.
Response
Life is the first mistake, and all wonderful things follow. Life is a short side-trail in the course of things. Why not marvel along the way? Every imperfection is a miracle and we are its witnesses. Go and proclaim the good news!
The following is a vent about some difficult emotions in recovery. If you struggle with an eating disorder, please use your best judgement as to whether being exposed to some darker feelings about my eating disorder would be helpful or harmful to your own health. As always, I am pro-recovery. Recovery might be the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but it is worth it.
No Freedom
My body is not my own. What a disgusting thing to say. Ana feeds off my freedom. Terrible. There is no winning move. Whether I listen to the social angels or not, I lose. I can only hope that it’s on my own terms. I do not know what my terms are.
How do I want to die? Randomly, succumbing to fate? Of one of the many humiliating maladies of old age? Of a self-inflicted cardiac arrest? Maybe even the agonizing end of starvation? Sometimes this feels like the only question that matters. If I don’t get a say over my body in life, it would be a relief to have a say in my body’s death.
Why do other people get to call what I do with my own body a sickness? “Ego-syntonic,'“ a medical term for normal behavior. I do what I love and they call it disorder. I do what I hate and they call it recovery. Nothing but the logic of emotion makes sense when Ana’s around.
They call starvation fighting myself. Nothing feels easier and more natural. Eating, that is fighting myself. Food is hell and nobody feels brave enough to say with certainty that it will become pleasurable and natural again.
Fight your nature, go through hell, and give up control, the social angels say. The angel on my shoulder says to trust myself. I don’t know why I’m not listening to her.