i am in control.

I am in control. Those sullen words are like a food crumb that has been stuck in my teeth forever and marinating in a painful cavity, like a splinter shoved so deep in my skin that it bruises and becomes infected with no cure, like a friend that starts taking advantage of your life by stabbing you in the back with a kitchen knife without any remorse. So obsessive, yet so right. That is the norm, the moral of my existence. A mantra. Manifestation.

After all, a person has to have some sort of discipline of themselves, right? If the reality you are living in goes off the rails, you have to be able to get yourself back on the correct route. To prevent further mishaps, you should take additional precaution by punishing yourself in a way that, in the future, you would not mess up again. Just a small moment of self-inflicted agony leads you towards the target of being the ideal. Of being in control. My insides could be rotting from the inside out, my brain could be submerged in the ocean of thoughts, but besides all of that, I will finally reach my goal numbers on the glass scale, I will be able to wrap my fingers around my bony wrist, I will not be ashamed to show off my physique. I will be in control.

Food has always been a thing I have been eager to organize, divide, and possess in my power. Every bite of it has to be planned out, the calories must be counted, and the portions must be adequate for my standards. There is always a limit, an invisible line that I should not cross when it comes to food. It is like food is the flimsy marionette puppet and I am its manipulator, pulling the fragile strings as tight as possible. But sometimes, the strings tend to rip apart and the puppet chokes and falls right down. Just as the food I have eaten. I devour everything in my path, fall into deep despair, keep repeating the words in my head, and make the food leave my body.

At first, that sense of euphoria from gaining control back floods my head with such contentment. I feel satisfied and proud of myself for that; however, that is only temporary. The emptiness peaks over my head and creeps back into my body. It is a feeling I cannot put into words, but I am scared. I am terrified of what I have come to. If the food is the marionette puppet, me – its puppeteer – then what role is the fear playing in this whole façade? And what will happen when all of the puppet’s strings turn to frail shreds and start hopelessly begging for any sign of life I have taken away from it? I will probably feel bad for its suffering and tie the strings to my fingers again. I would temporarily fix it, just so the controlling cycle of the war I have inflicted upon myself could keep on rotating again.