Rhae01

Trigger Warning: This piece relates to eating desorders.

To say I have a tumultuous relationship with food is, in itself, a massive understatement.

I wouldn’t say I eat my feelings away — but I do feel an overwhelming compulsion to munch on whatever’s at hand. Usually, it’s the worst kind of junk: chips, sweets, the ultra-processed crap you wouldn’t feed a stray dog if you had a shred of decency.

Of course, it’s always that food. God forbid I ever get a compulsion for fruit. Or vegetables. Or anything remotely healthy.

The anxiety creeps in — fast, unrelenting — and my mind begins hunting. Scrambling for something to chew, to swallow, to quiet whatever internal tremor just got set off.

That’s why I don’t keep treats at home. No bread. No sweets. No chocolate. No chips or cookies.

Nothing.

Fortunately, we’re spared the burden of entertaining guests, so there’s never any need to stock up on finger foods to please company while engaging in hollow, surface-level conversations I have no patience for.

Still, when the opportunity presents itself — when food is available — I overindulge. Without fail. And yes, I feel guilty. But I don’t stop.

I can’t stop.

I don’t want to stop.

I know I should.

Until…

I purge.

It’s convenient. Risky, yes — but it gets the job done. A release valve for the guilt and shame of being a glutton. A filthy, compulsive fiend.

But it’s not a habit. Not really.

It's quite odd to pick such a reaction from you.
I swore I would never write about you anymore, but these rare, subtle expressions of tenderness—those that slip through your usual nonchalant façade—remind me you hold, at least, a sliver of veiled affection for me.
Even if you fight so hard to conceal it. Even from yourself.

We were on the phone—another rarity. You usually abhor staying on longer than necessary.
But there’d been an unexpected passing in your social circle. You tried to keep your voice even, but I heard it—the crack beneath the calm.

The person who passed was the beloved of a friend. Gone swiftly, it seemed, taken by a sudden illness.
You recounted it in clipped sentences, like facts on a clipboard. Still, the surprise was poorly hidden in your voice.
You kept pretending you were fine.
You weren’t.

It was a tragedy. No one would blame you for feeling sadness.
But I’ve learned the hard way—you're stubborn. You won’t admit it, so I don’t press.
I let you continue.

I felt a pang myself. Unexpected loss always hits in some raw, collective way. We've all known it. That shared, shapeless grief.
You kept talking. Calm, almost distracted. And then, suddenly:

"Have you had a checkup recently?"

At first, I was caught off guard.
I do regular checkups—both my parents are doctors. It’s second nature. Routine.
For a moment, I thought: You should know that.

Then it clicked.
You’re asking because you’re concerned about my well-being.
Or at least, I wished you were.

I teased you, reflexively. Couldn’t help it. The disbelief, the hope, the fear—all rolled into one nervous flick of the tongue.

"Aw, why do you ask? Would you miss me if I’m no longer here?"

Half joke. Half truth.

And then—I heard it. That slight crack.
The flex in your voice.
The nervous laugh.
The stumble over your words as you tried to bat the question away.

"Haha! Just asking. I mean, one should get a checkup every once in a while, right?"

I gripped my phone tighter.
A dumb, childish smile crept across my face.

"Yeah, you’re right."

I was trying to find some inspiration to write, as my mind feels restless.
I realize it’s my own nagging self-hate. I try to ignore it — pretend that nauseating feeling isn’t there.

I go about my day: doing chores, feeding the dog, watching TV.
My mind races, trying to silence those abhorrent thoughts, and I deflect.
I try to pick up a book — I pick ten, read none.

I try to write, but the words fail me.

It’s been more than a decade since I sat down and poured out my actual thoughts and feelings. I grew to dislike my own prose — and worse, to dread the reflection staring back from the page.

I am not a nice person.

I know I’m not well-liked. Sometimes I feel lonely.
But then I remind myself: I don’t need anyone.
A paradox, yes — but maybe that’s just the essence of who I am.

I reject human interaction, yet ache for human connection.
Still, I am, undeniably, avoided.

Sometimes, I make sure of it.
I build these defenses — fortified like iron gates — that snap shut the moment I feel threatened, keeping others at a distance.

If no one gets close, no one can hurt you.

But living like that comes with a cost.
You remain locked in defense mode, always alert, always ready to strike —
even when no one’s attacking.

I think this is burnout. Not hatred for my job exactly, but a corrosive exhaustion toward the people around me.
Or maybe it’s just the slow erosion of motivation…
the kind of decay that comes with age.

I’m at my calmest when I’m alone.
When I hide from the world.

Just how pathetic am I.

Here I am begging for breadcrumbs of attention to those who time and time again have shown me they don’t want anything to do with me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

Why, all of a sudden, do I have this craving for human companionship?

Why, all of a sudden, I want to talk for hours on end about everything and nothing with someone?

I didn’t want to miss anyone.

I was comfortable not having someone to whom I wanted to tell about small things like my day at work or what I ate or what books I read.

I’ve never been one to shy away from loneliness.

I embrace it.

It’s a weapon and a shield, if you’re alone no one can hurt you and if no one can hurt you life becomes quieter yet peaceful.

And now, in a matter of just seconds? No, is been days, perhaps months that these unwanted feelings started to rot and drip from the attic of my cold heart into my very soul.

Falling in love is for the weak.

Humans don’t need other humans but we ourselves create such need by rubbing our needy feelings towards others who then respond to our need with their own needy feelings, creating a cycle, an infinite loop.

I didn’t want to need anyone. Yet I’m embarrassingly consumed by this need, this desire to bare my soul to another.

Despicable.

I have a debilitating fear of storms
Not sure where that came from.
“It’s probably a fear born in a past life.”
You casually offered.
“Perhaps.” I pondered. “Do you have a past life fear?”
A long pause.
“The sea at night” your voice barely a whisper.
Then a thought hit me.
What if we met before,
In a different life
And I lost you…
In a ferocious storm
While you were out at Sea
In the dark of night.”

I was born a reject.

A misfit.

Nowhere to belong.

A life of solitude.

"I'm used to it, 

— I don't mind"

Are the lies

I feed myself.

Every. Day.

I write therefore I am. 

I'm an office worker from 9-5 who uses dry, sarcastic and often dark humor to cope with the horrors of the corporate world and who reads and writes to stay sane.

More often than not, I write BS and about the griefs and nuances of what seems to be a futile yet beautiful existence called Life. 

So come, take a seat, my demons and I, welcome you.