I haven’t felt hungry in over a week. Eating has been one of the hardest things. In the past days, several hours have been going by without me thinking about food or touching a morsel. I only really noticed how my weight had slipped off when I was dragging my suitcase through Stockholm, and the trousers that were usually snug were falling down past my hips. I had a horrendous struggle trying to lug over 25 kilos of luggage and keep my trousers up at the same time without flashing my underwear to all and sundry.
I was showering later that night and caught sight of myself in the mirror as I was changing. I was all ribs. It was an ugly, frightening sight that, in a previous life, would have left me elated. But that night, left me feeling ashamed, grotesque and fucking furious that I had allowed my grief to impact on my weight.
Today has been another day where my body has felt too stuffed with sadness to allow any feelings of hunger to emerge. It’s been another day where I’ve had to physically force myself to eat because I’ve lost enough weight already and loosing anymore would be disastrous. I mashed up my fish and peas at dinner until it resembled baby food, and ate it tiny mouthful by tiny mouthful. There was no moment of enjoyment, no second where I felt fulfilled. I was eating because if I don’t then life just gets more difficult. Just now I mashed up some Weetabix and, again, ate it tiny mouthful by tiny mouthful. I don’t know when I’ll feel hungry again. I don’t know when I’ll look forward to and enjoy a meal. But eat I must, and eat I will, even if it is in tiny bites, even if it is forced. I’ve got too much to live for to starve.