I started tutoring English to make extra cash. I spent hours talking about writing and books and school and plans for the future and I realized tutoring meant more. It meant demystifying writing. I got to break down the barriers to my favorite world.
I felt that passion as I walked home from a tutoring session one evening. I felt the buzz only writing can give me. I felt the crisp air of summer’s end and the glow of the sunset. Then, I reached my apartment building and passed it. I walked to reach 10,000 steps. I walked to see the cityscape and to get my blood flowing and whatever other healthy reasons you can have for going on a walk but mostly to reach 10,000 steps. Then 15,000, because that felt safe.
The walk was beautiful. Up a hill with a view of everything. I felt awed and thought of all the things I’ve been lucky enough to see.
I got home and drank cup after cup of green tea. I ate a handful of almonds. I ate peanut butter from the jar and then chugged a diet soda then threw up in the sink. My throat was the inside of a battery. My heart was cocaine. I crawled into bed and my hands shook.
This was all in the same day.
How can I live in such disconnect? I want to travel and write and maybe even help people, but I also want to throw up my food/ lose weight/disappear. I know the time spent with your head in the toilet/ on the scale/ on the elliptical/on a calorie-counting app is time that you’re not connecting with people/ following your passions/engaging with the world. I am doing exactly what I don’t believe in. I want a meaningful life and there is no meaning here.
I know an eating disorder is a mirage. Of course it is easy to follow. Real life is a path covered in sand. It is not as seductive, but it is the only way back.
I will not give up.