After A Lifetime Of Silence, It Is

I Developed A Deep, Abiding Fear Of Jeans, Which I Still Have. I Hold My Breath And Shut My Eyes When I Pull On A Pair In The Dressing Room, Afraid They Will Now, As Then, Get Stuck At My Hips And There I Will Stand, Absurd, Staring At The Excess Of Hips That Should, If I Were A Good Person, Be „slim“.

I Know How This Feels: The Tightening Of The Chest, The Panic, The What-have-i-done-wait-i-was-kidding. Eating Disorders Linger So Long Undetected, Eroding The Body In Silence, And Then They Strike. The Secret Is Out. You're Dying.

For A Long Time I Believed The Opposite Of Passion Was Death. I Was Wrong. Passion And Death Are Implicit, One In The Other. Past The Border Of A Fiery Life Lies The Netherworld. I Can Trace This Road, Which Took Me Through Places So Hot The Very Air Burned The Lungs. I Did Not Turn Back. I Pressed On, And Eventually Passed Over The Border, Beyond Which Lies A Place That Is Wordless And Cold, So Cold That It, Like Mercury, Burns A Freezing Blue Flame.

We Were At Another Funeral Party. I Wasn’t Sure Who Had Died This Time, But It Was A Suicide, And Upsetting Because It Was Completely Out Of Season. No On Killed Themselves In Summertime. It Was Rude.

Starvation Is Incredibly Frightening When It Finally Sets In With A Vengeance. And When It Does,you Are Surprised. You Hadn't Meant This. You Say: Wait, Not This. And Then It Sucks You Under And You Drown.