I turned 43 years old. I live with my sick mother in a rented apartment. Before that, my father was sick, and I was taking care of him. I lost everything: my youth, I did not graduate from university, I did not start a family, I will never have a child, no one has ever hugged me or kissed me. I never had sex.
My mother was 43 years old when I was born. “If I had known, I would have had an abortion,” “I wanted to give you to an orphanage, but your father wouldn’t let me,” “Some people are certainly better off not being born,” “Look at your fat face,” “You are disgusting to look at,” were just a few “kind” statements.
For almost ten years I drank, but no one knew about it. I was bulimic. I was missing more than half of my teeth. My front upper arms are gone. My body is mottled with stretch marks, flaccid breasts, a disgusting belly. This is week eight of abstraction and healthy eating. I must have lost weight.
I don’t see the real me. I’ve always looked at me from the mirror as a fat creature that I hated, even when I was starving and weighing 45 pounds.
I don’t know why I live.
