I stayed up all night to watch the sun come up, the light spilling across the sky as though some celestial elbow had knocked into the sun, tipping it over. It was pretty and calming; I contemplated it while I ate oatmeal with banana slices.
By the time I got to my eight am class, though, my insomnia high had worn off. Cranky and splotchy, my insides all flighty, I trudged to my classroom. I passed an underweight girl on the stairs. “Piss off,” I muttered half-heartedly, too tired to deal with the exhaustive task of eating disordered thinking, or any sort of thinking at all, for that matter. I took a detour into the bathroom, first peering underneath the stalls: I was alone. I dumped my books on the sink and leaned close to the mirror, pulling at the skin under my eyes. I looked tired, my skin angry and red. I looked pudgy and bloated, too, and I tentatively placed a hand on my stomach to confirm this. Fuck.
Before heading to my classroom I made one more stop at the vending machine; my body had been crying for hydration. I inserted the exact change and punched the button for water: SOLD OUT, it shouted back. I hit it several more times. SOLD OUT SOLD OUT SOLD OUT god dammit! The only other options were soda. At eight in the morning? I resigned to a zero calorie Pepsi.
I got to class early; my soda opened with a hiss, aggressively conspicuous in the quiet classroom. The two other people in the room had breakfast with them: water, green tea, yogurt with granola. No soda.
I already don’t like today. I’m going to nap until it’s time to go to treatment.