When i was 23 i read about Amélie Nothomb eating rotten fruit and drinking tea ad nauseam. I liked that. I drink coffe on an empty stomach until i feel sick. Then i exercice until i almost faint. It’s the best feeling in the world. I don’t like rotten fruit, but i don’t really eat fresh fruit either. Give me frozen berries any day. But the nausea appeals to me. The empty feeling, feeling clean and thin and free of urges. That’s probably a sign of anorexia but i don’t care, i’m too old for that now. I have tamed my relationship to food. No more binge eating, buying all the candy, stuffing myself with greasy pasta dishes, thinking about the throwing up that’s going to follow. The purge. I always feel purged now. I do intermittent fasting, i’m healthy like that. Maca, chlorella, spirulina, ashwagandha, hemps seeds, pumpkin protein, baobab, moringa, you name them, i already take them. Or rather eat them. I thrive on so-called healthy food. It’s an obsession, getting only healthy stuff inside that body engine of mine. My daily fuel. It’s called orthorexia nervosa but i don’t care. I eat what i enjoy. Even if it’s healthy. Even if it’s not my childhood comfort food. I ditched that. There is no comfort in being a child. Why trying to recall any of that? Greasy pasta dishes with cream and ham and a nicely baked crust. Fresh out the oven. Prepared by my mother. Not out of love, but out of habit. Because she had to cook. The perfect housewife, the perfect mother. Always trying too hard, putting so much effort into meaningless daily tasks. Ironing underwear and socks, spending hours folding chemises, hanging ties, keeping the husband happy. The working man, the provider. The one who went to university. But the stupid one. She was smart as hell but she was born in 1945. She married an idiot who looked cool at her parents village café. They are even remotely related.
That’s why my genes are so fucked up.
Like rotten fruit inside.
But i feel like a lotus flower.