The rush of blood surfacing, no, surging from my finger dutifully, from finger to the countertop, from countertop to internal screams. I attempt to restrict them, restrict bellows.
        My friend approaches, her face showing shock while mine shows concern. I plead for her to summon Mom from where she is running on the treadmill….
….My own mother, unaware, just running to nowhere, while my mind races everywhere.

        Mom stares in dissatisfied awe and forces the last bite of banana down my throat, literally. This was as real as it could get, but so far away from anything we could imagine.
        I spit out the mushy, rubbery banana like it’s an entire cake. It has no flavor anyway, just like everything else; it’s bland and worth nothing. This body rejects it just like it has rejected all food up until a few days prior. Shocked, more at her than at myself.
        But this isn’t the first time food has been thrown and mashed, smashed and abused, refused, defaced, replaced, and violated. The floors of this quiet home have been invaded and vandalized before by my fear, restriction.

       Eyes greeting the accumulating red pool seeping out of the gash, its wine color penetrating memory, I’m impressed by all that’s there beneath my skin. So impressed that I stroll into the family room like it’s just a fall day and the leaves are ablaze in color, the only difference being that, today, gaze would wander to the blood, the “ketchup” not beautiful foliage.
        I call to my brother nonchalantly, informing him of this tragic wonder that has happened. He is upstairs with a friend doing who-knows-what, but anything’s preferable to standing in the family room trying to choke back the pain.
        I never liked crying in front of people.

        I never liked crying in front of people. The uncomfortable act was inevitable, though, after staring at my plate consisting of too much of everything I didn’t want to eat. I held back the tears for the time being, though, not feeling like contorting my face to match their sorrow.
        I restrict the tears.

        I restrict my tears and screams, sitting in the TV room, trying to stay distracted from the sting in my finger-tip and shake in my bones. Although caring, Mom’s sighs, frustration, anger about me handling things I shouldn’t be is crystal clear. My friend tells me this is why butter knives are better.
        Sitting next to she who witnessed my silly kitchen mishap, I just feel like pacing, thriving on the soft carpeting because it’s easier to agonize than be still. But I restrict my feet moving like they so overwhelmingly want to. I restrict it all.

        My mind has refused to let my stomach show hunger; the powers of anorexia.

         I have refused to show pain.

         I restrict my tears. I restrict my screams. I restrict my stomach ‘till it can’t hold anything beyond restriction. The more I restrict, the simpler life becomes. The more I restrict the restriction, the easier it becomes to move on. The more I restrict, the more the pain restricts itself. The more I restrict the restrictions, the easier it becomes to stop restricting myself and find peace in the world, but not in the one that makes it seem like the best option is to restrict myself to nothing. No pain. No flavor. No feeling.
         I weep.