Content Warning: Starvation, trauma.
I’m not asking for pity. I’m not asking for anything. Just sharing some things that I have no one else to share with.
Surviving Each Day
In March, I tore a map of the United States of America apart with my bare hands.
It was a souvenir from 2008, a collector’s item — a sturdy slab of cardboard that showcased 50 state quarters that I had collected back then. Every slot had its proper coin, wedged permanently into place.
A butter knife didn’t help me, and I didn’t have much time, so it was just the map against my hands.
I pried out each and every quarter, one by one. California, Oregon, Arizona; becoming 25 cents richer as the pile beside me grew.
I decided to work from left to right, starting with California. That quarter was the most difficult one to pry out; it wouldn’t budge. I practically had to tear a hole in the plastic backing to force it out.
My hands were sore and battered by the time I reached Texas, and my fingers began to split and bleed along the shoreline of the east coast.
I threw the gutted map in the dumpster, along with most of my other belongings.
Half of the money was shaken out of me at toll booths.
The other half went to food.
I paid in exact change and rationed what was reasonably meant to be two meals for an entire week.
Eaten Alive
I still dream about the food I bought that day when I go to bed with my stomach growling at night. It was one of the best and heartiest meals I’ve eaten in a very long time.
In March of this year, my BMI was in the healthy range at 23.7. Now, at the end of May, my weight has dropped significantly down to an almost-underweight BMI of 19.9.
And that 19.9 will likely be the highest my BMI will ever be. I have stringently exhausted all of my options at this point.
I’m so hungry. I’m malnourished. I’m traumatized.
It’s a slow and painful process; exhausting, too. Anguished beyond words. I miss going to restaurants. It was one of my favorite things about being alive.