Ana's Voice

After a night of anxiety attacks, waking up to the stink of rotten cat food in my putrid kitchen, and my own stench from full-body sweats and my unwashed hair, I can hear Ana’s voice again: “I’m so sick of being fat. Of looking hideous. I’m going to be super-conscious of every little thing that goes in my mouth. I’m going to write it all down. I’m going to push myself really hard to get active again. To form good habits. If you even have the slightest hope of getting married after forty – after fifty – you’re going to at least have to be a normal size – although, realistically, no one’s going to marry your face, anyway.” On and on she goes. She’s insidious, really, in the way she creeps back into the house when you think you’ve evicted her for good.

It’s not like any of the measures Ana’s suggesting would even make a difference. I was on Ozempic for eight months and didn’t lose a pound. I’ve tried shake diets for weeks at a time – nada. We know that food intake isn’t the problem. Well, the lack of food intake is.

“But maybe you’ve slipped and you’re eating way more now than you think! Maybe the treatment has made you sloppy.” And there she goes again.

Depression, Anxiety and Pain help her get in, of course. They conspire together. PTSD sits close by, tongue hanging out in anticipation, waiting for a chance to put in his two cents – which he does this morning, because I have work to finish. I’m supposed to be on a three-month break, but this piece of work has taken so long to get through that I’ll be lucky if I get a week off. I can’t even take a break right. I’m not sure I can face him again today. He’s working against me, even though I could get the main part of this piece finished by this evening, if my body and brain would behave.

I should shower. Deal with that cat food. That would help. But I don’t have the energy. Not even to help myself. Maybe I should have some breakfast. It’s nearly noon and I haven’t eaten or taken my medication. But I don’t have any muesli left, so I’d have to cook something. No energy to do that. Can’t have that apple, because it’ll give me a tummy ache. Can’t eat that banana – it’s too ripe now, and I’ll gag on its squishiness. Plus, the second I go into that kitchen, I’ll feel sick from the smell and then I definitely won’t be able to face food.

My feet are gritty from my rug, which needs a vacuum. I hate having gritty feet, but it’s almost inevitable when you have animals and tile floors. You can never get them clean—

—oh, hello, ADHD. I see you’ve made an appearance.

I need to dust the top of that cabinet.

Ugh, another chunk of my hair just fell out. That’s been happening a lot, lately.