Conflicted

I want to be thin again. I want to be light; I want to be nothing. I really do.

I miss my bones protruding, the smooth, sharp curve of my hipbones contrasting with my lumpy, sagging pants. I miss having my knees being the widest part of my leg. I miss having spindle-y arms. I miss being delicate; I miss being fragile.

I don't miss the constant headache. I don't miss the aching joints, the fatigue. I don't miss binging and purging, or chewing and spitting. I don't miss the dizziness. I don't miss having my hair fall out in clumps. I don't miss the prying questions. I don't miss the screaming. I don't miss the crying.

A worries about me. He told me on Saturday how worried he was about me at the beginning of the school year. He notices my thicker hair, my pinker skin, my brighter eyes. He notices when I don't eat too. And he makes me. He tells me I'm beautiful, even though I don't believe it. He tells me that I'm wonderful, even though I don't believe it.

He notices my struggle with it now, and tries to pull me into safety, even though that isn't where I want to be. He says he doesn't want me to fall back in. I want to dive. But I can't bring myself to make the jump.