I want to share this letter which I worte to my mother in the delirium of anorexia and which I never delivered to her. My mother has also been suffering from a severe form of anorexia nervosa for most of her life. I hope these words won't hurt anybody's sensibility, but rather help to extend the knowledge about this cruel illness.
Dear Mother, I'm writing you this letter, it's my last night in Berlin. Writing forces me to sit down and to think before doing it, without being influenced by the reaction of the person I'm referring to. That's why I prefer writing to talking. I'm writing you now, after two days without sleeping, but still I feel as if suddenly it's all clear to me. I'm writing you after I asked you not to contact me during this week, even though probably I was begging myself not to do it. Not to send you all my selfies. Not to report you live all my little successes, the successes of our illness. Not to make you become my interactive life-guru, the reaction of which influences every my consideration of good or bad. I don't want to blame you for this. I just want to explain it to you, to say it out clearly and sincerely because now it's finally clear to my eyes as well. My whole life up to now, every little action of mine just had one purpose: your approval. Your pride. Your nod, your gaze. This is the only metrical system I always confronted with, the only thing I care about. To be worth your love. No religion, no ethics, no hobby ever was of any interest to me. As soon as I think, that something I'm doing is right in your eyes, I'm in peace. The reason I don't know myself, as I sad I don't want to blame you, probably it's just pure cowardice or I'm simply too lazy to look for my own life standards. Maybe I'm just afraid to look life straight in the eyes, with the risk that something might go wrong. Most probably my idea of what you consider right or wrong is totally mistaken, maybe you're not happy at all about what I'm doing or it doesn't even matter to you and you would truly love and approve me even if I was simply myself. Even if I was fat. Even if I was ugly. And dumb and stupid and fucking normal, bad im my studies, antisocial, without any ambitions. Would you? I don't know. Let's be sincere, all our thoughts are guided by this damn illness. We're both intelligent enough to know it, yet too coward to admit it - to ourselves in the first place. It's the devil, mommy. You cannot think about anything else. You would turn your back to your best friend, fuck every ethical and moral principle, just to be skinny. You become a horrible person. And the more I realize it, the deeper I sink into it, the more I punish myself. It's no more about becoming handsome. I can see it myself - my bloated intestins full of water, my bony arms, the lifeless hair left on my head...it's all but beautiful. I know why I asked you and dad not to contact me during this trip. It's because I wanted to try to eat normally and somehow I feel as if I constantly have to prove you that I'm still this ill, still this skinny, still keeping up this insane game for you, even though you may wish exactly the oppsite. You even begged me to stop. It's a paradox. Why am I doing this? It's a really good question. Am I evil, do I want to hurt you? Or do I want exactly the opposite of what I think to: do I want you to finally push me away so as to build up my own life and to emancipate? What do I want, for God's sake? What would I do if I was totally free, what do I really like? I'm really confused about it and honestly also too tired and weak to seriously think about it. Often I simply feel as if I arrived to an end and, to be honest, I also happen to wish for it...
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