I have never been to great at math.

Numbers looks like hieroglyphics that

have yet to be tanslated into english.

Its symbols look like my 5th grade art portfolio scribbles,

but yet

when a plate is set in front of me 

when my friends invite me to dinner

when I simply go to the grocery store,

the calculator in my brain goes into overdrive

counting the calories in every bite

adding them to ones already consumed that day

subtracting from the total intake on days I do workouts 

too exerting for my failing body

dividing nutrient of a saltine cracker

trying to see how long I could survive off just one. 

You would think for someone who hates math so much

their mind would always be counting,

but things are funny that way, aren't they?

It's funny when people cannot see behind the lie that is,

"I'm sorry, I'm a picky eater,"

It's funny that there are people who awe at my

"healthy diet,"

It is just fucking hilarious that in the English language

"dieting" and "dying"

sound so similar.

My therapist once told me that it is because 

I often feel so out of control that I try to control

every aspect of my life that I can.

That I am searching for a balance,

but I am pretty sure the only thing I will find

is my fucking death sentence

because when bringing a spoonful of ice water

becomes something painful,

I have never felt more defeated

never felt more out of control.

I know what I am doing is wrong,

but I would rather take a full schedule of math classes 

than deal with this nonstop calculator in my head

because math is hard,

but solving for X is a lot easier

than solving myself. 

As I sit here in my bathroom crying

at the numbers on a scale

I think back to primary school,

crying at the mumbers on my math homework.

1+1=2

the one problem every kid understood

except for me

because 1 day of not eating

plus another

does not simpy 2 days of not eating

but rather 2 days of dying.

They say recovery is beautiful

so I must be ugly.