#eating disoder trigger warning | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redisrobinhearts · 3 days ago

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TW EATING DISORDERS!! weight, numbers, anorexia

It was never about control, not really. Not the kind the media would suggest, not the way those tired, melodramatic movies tried to frame it. They always got it wrong, anyway. They called it a cry for attention, a plea for control, a side effect of perfectionism. But Tim didn’t want control.

If you asked him, really asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what he wanted. Maybe that was the point.

He didn’t want to feel powerful. He wanted to feel nothing.

And so he chased emptiness like it was salvation.

Hunger wasn’t suffering. It was purity. It was silence. It was the loudest scream of existence he could offer to a world that wouldn’t stop looking at him.

He was addicted to the feeling. To the dull, knifing pangs in his gut. To the dizzy haze behind his eyes, the slow fade of vision when he stood too quickly.

It wasn’t control.

It was surrender.

Every morning he’d wake up, his room a mess and every morning followed the same rhythm, a ritual practiced so often it had long since ceased to feel like a choice.

Wake.

Drag himself out of bed, each joint stiff, each movement an effort.

Stretch. What if his limbs had thickened in the night?

Bathroom. Strip. Use the toilet.

Step onto the scale.

Wait.

Step off. Pace in tight, restless circles.

Step back on the scale.

Compare. Judge. Repeat.

Redress.

Go downstairs.

Smile.

A daily devotion.

Each time he’d glance to his rosary hung lovingly next to his mother’s, send a small prayer that the number on the scale wouldn’t ruin his day.

Because that’s what his days were based on.

Numbers.

That number on the scale was the first and most important verdict of the day.

If it went up? The day was ruined.

If it dropped? A good day. A small victory.

If he binged? Complicated. A good number could soften the blow. But if he binged and the number went up?

He didn’t have words for the way his chest would compress, his head would ring, his body would buzz with hatred.

It was as simple as that.

He couldn’t purge, not anymore at least. His gag reflex was gone, whisked away from years of fingers stuffed down his throat whilst he hunched over a pristine toilet seat.

Despite this, the schedule never changed. The ritual, never changed. He was fully aware it wasn’t normal, but it was necessary, sacred.

Looking at the sweet, expensive rosaries hung on his wall, he thought about if God was needed for his own little shrine of numbers.

But he knew God, or any, wasn’t needed to build a shrine, his existence was a monument to numbers.

In place of mass or communion he’d go downstairs, family already awake. He’d smile at Alfred and playfully roll his eyes at the man’s tutting to his habit of drinking so much diet soda while his first move in the kitchen was to retrieve a Pepsi max.

“Alfred, you know eating when I wake up makes me feel sick.”

It didn’t, but that same line was said every day. Like a prayer.

Damian, always around, would roll his eyes and comment about how unhealthy diet sodas were. Tim almost envied his younger brother, as tall - maybe even taller, than himself and only 14. Tim was 17. Bruce said he’d grow more, Tim knew he wouldn’t.

Tim knew his family knew there was something wrong with him. Tim knew they thought it was PTSD. Well.. he has PTSD, but, that wasn’t what was wrong with him.

He wouldn’t speak it out loud, never, though it had a name. A clinical one. It didn’t fit with a detective, the genius, a bat. Anorexic.

The word felt foreign, medical, clinical. But it was the truth. A truth that lived in his bloodstream, behind his ribs, inside the hollowness he carved into himself each day.

It’s weird to think, that he has this disorder, but he won’t speak of it to anyone. It’s weird that a family of detectives don’t recognise it. But, if Tim can lie to Batman, he can lie to anyone. And lie he will.

Tim loves his little brother. And even if Damian shows it in this weird way, he knows Damian loves him too. It’s the cups of tea Damian brings him, it’s the attacks that are never to kill anymore - just to test his strength. Tim saves his strength for those, he knows it’s mostly Damian reassuring himself that his older brother is safe. That he can take care of himself.

He knows all of his siblings love him. He knows his whole family loves him.

It’s the way dick will always return home with a soft smile and warm eyes for him, ignoring the deep cutting insults, accusations and whatever else Tim had screamed at him the last time he was there. The way he’d ignore the next ones Tim would throw his way.

It’s the way Jason would tease him, the way he’d always bring a bit extra food for him. The way Jason would get him things related to his special interests. The way he’d pick up evidence for Tim, the way he’d place bugs and interrogate for him.

It’s the way Cassandra would step a bit louder when approaching him. It’s the way Cass would ask if he’d like to join her on walks. it’s the way Cass would sincerely ask about his special interests. The way Cass would happily listen to him for hours.

Tim knew his family loved him. Tim knew Bruce loved him. He knew his dad loved him.

It’s the way Bruce would stockpile Tim’s favourite (safe) foods and wouldn’t ask Alfred to get them. It’s the way he’d indulge Tim and let him sleep in the bed with him on bad nights. It’s the way he learned about Catholicism despite being non practicing Jewish. It’s the way he had a Catholic Church built in Gotham in Tim’s mother’s name. Tim never asked for it, but the gesture carved something sharp and sacred into his heart.

Alfred loved him. The closest he’d ever had as a grandfather. Alfred loved him. It’s the way Alfred wouldn’t clean or enter Tim’s room when Tim had asked. It’s the way Alfred would cook entirely separate things for him. It’s the way Alfred would sometimes not cook for Tim at all and allow Tim to make his own meals. It’s the way he never really stopped Tim from drinking diet soda or energy drinks.

His family loved him. They loved him with all of their hearts. But they never figured it out.

How could they have? Tim went through a lot of effort hiding it. He certainly didn’t want them to.

It was back to his bedroom for him, to sit at his desk and browse edtumblr or edtwt or any forum that fit his fancy.

“Would you like to walk through the gardens with me?”

Cass’ voice was soft. It was kind. It was sweet. She would always ask even though every time Tim would say no.

Each time she would smile, nod and tell him he can join her later if he wants.

He never would.

He’d spend the next few hours browsing, sipping from his rapidly going flat Pepsi max. His stomach clawing and consuming the carbonated fluid while it screamed for nutrients that it wasn’t sure it would get that day.

The hunger. This was how he worshipped nothingness. The gnawing feeling like his stomach was trying to digest itself. The pain. A penance indistinguishable from divine grace.

Tim knew he was pretty at least, if the media were telling the truth he was gorgeous. Likely to be named the most attractive man in Gotham to dick’s disappointment and Jason’s amusement.

He knew people thought he was beautiful. The magazines said so. The tabloids. The comments.

But Tim didn’t think he was pretty in the way he did.

He would stand in the mirror, minutes on minutes. The dark circles, sunken eyes, pointy hip bones, exposed ribs, concave stomach, air between his thighs. His image in the reflection is a reflection of the discipline he’d exuded. The pain a graceful reward for the numbers he’d sacrificed for divinity.

In the mirror, he saw bones. Sharp hips. Ribs like piano keys. A stomach sunken beneath skin that barely held shape.

Each pang of hunger was akin to a code, etching words beneath his ribs: Beauty. Divinity. Grace. Each pulse of hunger a compliment to the cavernous void of where his stomach resided.

His body akin to a temple, he wondered if it were a sort of blasphemy each time he bowed his head. Praying to God for lower numbers felt more like he prayed to the numbers for less, more divinity, the weightlessness would bring him closer to heaven, to God.

While floating in divinity, he floated closer to death.

Like when a morbidly obese bed ridden person continues to eat, they inch closer to death but don’t even realise they’re doing so.

He wasn’t even skinny he’d claim when reading about the dangers. He was smart, he took his vitamins and sure he was underweight but it was hardly skin and bones.

At 5’6” and 99 pounds, he told himself he wasn’t that bad. Not sick enough. Not thin enough. Not dying.

He was careful. Obsessively so. Ankle weights hidden beneath baggy sweats for monthly health check-ups. Protein water before blood draws. Vitamins taken religiously. The illusion of health preserved with surgical precision.

It took him to a swift bmi 16 to a bmi 20.3, Bruce didn’t suspect a thing.

It happened each month and like clock work he would apply the same methods to ensure his safety.

He’d say he wasn’t dying. But he was wrong.

Each day was built around numbers: grams, pounds, calories, steps. Each hour sectioned by rules only he knew. If the number was right, the day was blessed. If it was wrong, the day was punishment.

He lived in a shrine of numbers. His body, the altar. His rituals, prayers. His pain, penance.

Sometimes, in moments of clarity—or maybe just exhaustion—he wondered what he was worshipping. Was it God? Was it perfection? Emptiness? Was it the void itself?

Was he offering his body to a deity that didn’t exist?

He didn’t know.

He only knew that hunger felt like grace.

That the ache in his stomach was the only thing he could trust.

That the hollowness made him feel holy.

He wasn’t suicidal. He didn’t want to die. He just didn’t realize he was dying. But death took the form of a beatific void, inching closer with each number.

Not actively. Not with intent. But slowly. Quietly. Faithfully. Like a monk fasting for salvation that would never come.

Because you cannot eat beauty with a spoon. And you cannot fill a body that’s learned to worship its own starvation.

But the beauty he chased wasn’t for them. It was a private religion, one only he understood.

In the stillness of his room, surrounded by the glow of a laptop screen and forums filled with others like him—edtumblr, edtwt, anonymous boards full of hunger—he felt less alone. But never whole.

Each day he had a schedule.

Each day began with a number, each day was built from continuing numbers. These numbers symbolised who he was. His worth. His divinity.

It has nothing to do with controlling himself. For he could do just that. It was a matter of it controlling him.

Each day it had a schedule.

But for now, in this sole moment, there was the pain.

There were the numbers.

There was the shrine.

And he would keep worshipping.

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