Judging by my endless internet searches for something similar to my condition, I conclude that I'm the only person with "reverse anorexia." I googled "obsessive-compulsive overeating," but that's not quite it. I don't want to eat, and food doesn't relieve stress; it's stress itself.
I googled "bigorexia," but that's also not it. People with bigorexia want to become more muscular and see themselves as too thin. I don't see myself as too thin, but I feel too thin and just want to get rid of the unpleasant physical sensations.
I googled "dysmorphophobia," which is closer to the truth, but it still seems wrong. I've often encountered the thoughts of people with anorexia; their experiences are very similar to mine, only mirrored. For example, they describe a fear of gaining weight, a fear of "ruining the result." I have the opposite fear of losing weight and "ruining the result." Oh, if you only knew how hard it is to gain weight and keep it off when you want to and don't like eating. You if only you knew how vile and unholy weight loss seems when you don't want to.
It's as if an invisible parasite has settled on your shoulders, piercing you with needles through which your life slowly and painfully drains. Every day you wake up more and more exhausted, sleep no longer offers rest: week after week, falling asleep on your decaying body becomes increasingly difficult, you wake up more and more exhausted, as if you've been beaten in your sleep. Your body consumes itself, you just keep weakening, and a nasty lightness sets in, but not the kind they promote online, but a painful one, as if you've poisoned yourself and vomited out all your insides. It's as if your blood pressure is 80/40 and you can't raise it.
A shockingly nasty feeling of emptiness and helplessness. It's hard to call the emptiness pain or simply an unpleasant physical sensation—it's something deeper and more vile. You've been gutted, your entrails scooped out and carelessly discarded, and your stomach not even bothered to stitch up. There's no flesh or bone beneath the skin, only air keeps the remains of your body human-shaped.
The skin hangs loosely from the bones, your trembling limbs no longer capable of what they once were. There's no longer any strength, no sense of power; only the veins of old age are visible, and your cheeks are hollow. You can't lie down, you can't sit, you can't stand with your hands on your hips or folded across your chest, you can't cross your legs, you can't prop your head up with your fist—hell, you can't even scratch yourself. You used to have a body that allowed you to do all of this, and now there's only the rigor mortis of hard bones, constantly in pain and discomfort. An invisible parasite has sucked the life out of you, and you're dead and rotten. It's disgusting.
You feel lost and abandoned, beyond hope of salvation. Damaged, broken, and, for some reason, humiliated. It's the ultimate in nakedness and the ultimate in modesty, one that makes nightmares of standing naked in the middle of the street pale in comparison: in dreams, you're simply naked, and no evil force is encroaching on you. Losing weight is nakedness, but not oneness with nature and the universe, but the nakedness of a doll discarded in a landfill.
