I mean, if you can’t take care of yourself, what makes anyone think you could care about anything else?

That’s probably the wisest thing I’ve ever said. No. It definitely is.

        Think of your best friend. Now think of what you would want to say or do to anyone that hurt them. Unpleasant, right? You could punch said bully in the face, tell them off, slash their tires. Want to set their house on fire? Completely possible. But let’s add a little twist to this hypothetical situation of ours. What if the only thing keeping your friend from sleeping at night, from being happy, from being healthy at all is themself. Changes things, right?

       So often do we read blogs, reports, and watch the documentaries on eating disorders. You’ve seen the books in the stores and heard the celebrity sob stories. No matter how many times I see the bones, vomit, or single piece of celery they’ll eat for the next 24 hours, my mind can’t justify it. I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that anorexia is just as toxic for the onlooking loved ones as it is for the one battling with it.

       Part of me is angry. I just want to take them by the shoulders and shake them and yell at the top of my lungs every obscenity I know; curse them for their destruction. 

You are ripping skin of porcelain

and dulling eyes like glass.

You are so beautiful.

You are destroying an exquisite piece of artwork.

But the rest of me knows it’s a psychological problem. Unfortunately, that’s as far as my understanding goes. I’m not at doctor. This is completely new to me. I don’t understand the concept of being hungry, having available food, and not eating it. I just don’t get it, and until recently my idea of treating anorexia was shoving a sandwich down someone’s face. Not because I was trying to be a jerk, but because I just didn’t know. I’m ignorant when it comes to eating disorders. That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it? I get annoyed when people with ED are bitter towards the rest of the world for their ignorance instead of trying to help them understand. I can’t help you if I don’t know how.

I’m sorry for eating when I’m hungry. I’m sorry for not crying myself to sleep every night. I’m sorry for only vomiting when I’m sick. I’m sorry for not thinking about calories every second of every minute of every hour of every day. I’m sorry for liking my body. I’m sorry I’m not medicated for anxiety problems. I’m sorry I can eat cake without regret. I’m sorry that I love carbs. I’m sorry for having “fat days” and I sincerely apologize for occasionally describing parts of my body as fat without cringing. I’m sorry I’ve never been raped. I’m sorry I don’t have any negative feelings towards the male gender. 

Is that what you want me to say? 

Too bad. I don’t mean it.

The only thing I’m sorry about is not being able to help you.

       No one thinks about us. And by us I mean the onlookers: the ones who are watching their family member, friend, and/or classmate deteriorate. The ones who cry for someone else. I feel helpless. I am watching my friend die. I’m watching them kill themself. And sometimes I feel like I care more than they do. What a selfish thought. Yeah, I feel selfish too. I think it’s because I am trying to convince myself to stop caring. I don’t want to see the tears anymore. I don’t want to see your hair is falling out. I don’t want to know that you’re constantly dropping dress sizes. I want to forget your problem exists. I want to get as far away from anorexia as possible. I’m trying to protect myself from what I know I’m not strong enough to handle.

I’m afraid to earn the title of innocent bystander of murder.