That’s what it feels like.
Having a sick mind in a recovered body feels even more horrible than having a sick mind in a sick body.
At least having a sick body made me feel like my pain was worth something. At least the pain wasn’t invisible. At least people could see. At least I didn’t feel crazy. At least I was skinny.
Now I live in a recovered body and I’m not dying but my mind is still very much stuck in the sickness, the pain, the torture, the fear, the shame.
Now I’m sick but no one can see. I’m sick but my pain is invisible. I’m sick and I don’t look it. I’m sick and feel crazy. I’m sick and the pain is worth nothing.
I miss my sick body. Some days are worse than others, but lately all the days seem to be horrible.
I want my bones to show again. I want my stomach to be concave again. I want my thighs to be as far apart as the east is from the west again. I want to be fragile again. I want to feel high again. I want people to stare again. I want people to be scared for me again.
I miss my sick body.
And yet, in order to get my sick body back I would have to lose so much. My job. My school. My puppy. My apartment. My friends. My family.
I don’t want to lose those things but sometimes (a lot of the time) I would still rather have my sick body than all of those other wonderful things.
I’m stuck in the prison that is my body.
I am a sick mind living in a recovered body.