I'm Glad My Mom Died

There’s something magical about this. It feels like so much is happening.

home. Which is the main environment that influences your mental health. So why don’t we stay focused on the home?”

Bulimia is not the answer. Anorexia is. Anorexia is regal, in control, all-powerful. Bulimia is out of control, chaotic, pathetic. Poor man’s anorexia. I have friends with anorexia, and I can tell they pity me.

She’s got stage four cancer, she’s already plenty pitied. She doesn’t need to throw Wendy’s on top of it.

I somehow feel entitled to my hatred since I was not the one who dreamed of being famous. Mom was. Mom pushed this on me. I’m allowed to hate someone else’s dream, even if it’s my reality.

“You ready to run lines, Angel?” Mom asks. “Sure,” I say, even though I’m never ready. I still get nervous to practice lines with Mom. I thought my being cast as a series regular might help her lighten up a bit, but it hasn’t. She’s still so critical. It’s stressful.

So now, every time she misses work it feels like a personal attack. Every time something exciting happens to her, I feel like she robbed me of having that experience myself. And every time someone calls me a good sport, all I feel is how much I don’t want to be one. Fuck being a good sport, I’d rather be playing charades with Tom Hanks.

I have over a decade’s worth of eating disorder experience at this point. There were the anorexic years, the binge-eating ones, and the current bulimic ones. The more experience I’ve got, the more I recognize that the body is hardly a reliable reflection of what’s going on inside it.

It’s so annoying, eating-disorder brain.