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cold floors

Updated: Apr 1, 2023

Written 2.16.21

Activation Warning: themes surrounding disordered eating & self harm

My head is pounding and all I hear is a humming noise.

As I open my eyes, I realize the treadmill is still on. That’s why they have the safety clip, I think as I try to piece together the past hour or so. The only thing I remember is the number…700 and something calories burned.

I need help.

My body is breaking down as my nights are spent in front of the mirror in my bra and underwear pulling, poking, squishing, grabbing at my various “problem areas”. I track my hundreds of crunches each night, adding reps every time, on my meticulous spreadsheet, feeling intense pride as my vertebra digs into the wood floor creating purple battle wounds.

When was the last time I ate?

Now the concrete is cold on my sweaty body and the basement feels darker than usual. Waking up on the floor is starting to become another ritual but this one feels different. My usual self hatred allows me to pass out already on the floor but this time I had started standing…running actually…unaware of time or distance, just watching the calorie count increase…then nothing.

I should call my sister. She’ll know what to do.


This post is part of "The Eileen Show" Series

A vignette collection of memories, mis-attunements and messy moments that have limited, spiraled and propelled me within and throughout my life.

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