Horrifying fork

in my fucking metaphorical road.

Option A:

continue with my current habits and find myself admitted to New Farm

where I will be made to gain one kilo a week

until my BMI is back up to 20

from 16.

A gain of 11kg.

That is, of course, if intervention occurs before I have a heart-attack

or hit my head the next time I pass out in the bathroom

or choke on my own vomit.

Option B:

Begin normalising my eating habits.

Stop spending stolen money on food like a crack addict,

leading to me spending far too much time on disabled toilet floors

locked in whilst those waiting knock in aggravation.

Start eating breakfast, lunch and dinner, + morning and afternoon tea (apples).

Today I had Subway-

a six-inch multigrain roll with plain grilled chicken, lettuce, tomato, carrot and capsicum.

I sat inside and ate it slowly: it was warm in the restaurant. It smelled comforting, like toasting bread.

And it was as if the weight of the illness that was crushing across my chest was lifting.

And I felt okay.

(So... validation of my choice, anyone?

I'm feeling a little sad/wobbly/scared.)