Doni Smithe, Ph.D. (donismithephd) wrote,
Doni Smithe, Ph.D.

broken wings

Five more weeks until the cast comes off my wrist; eleven for the leg. This is excrutiating.

A tiny part of me wants to give in. To listen to Barbara, and Teddy. To hand myself over to vice--but I did that the other night, and look what happened. The pain in my stomach was worse than either of the broken bones. What possessed me to try to eat everything in the kitchen? I got hungry, and I got weak.

Saw a nutritionist today. She's supposed to help, but I don't see how anyone can eat this much in a single day. 2000 calories or more? It's crazy. I'll gain a pound per day, at least. That could be her plan; fatten me up, and then give me something more realistic. 1200 or so, tops.

I'm terrified. I keep wondering what will happen once I've hit my 'goal' weight; will I recognise myself? I'll have to buy new clothes, and I'll want to disappear, to hide from everyone. I won't be able to hide from myself, or from him. His words are everywhere. Look at you, p'tite. T'es grosse. Corporante. Lazy and stupid. I hated when he spoke English. God, I hated him. But he was right.
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