Last night, another fight broke out between my father and me. It started the same way it always does: he stood near my bed, arms crossed, looking at me with that mix of frustration and despair he can no longer hide. Then, his voice trembling, he said:

“Do you even see the state you’re in? You rely on me for everything. Everything. Even to feed you… You can’t keep going like this.”

His words were heavy, but it was the way he said them that hit harder. I knew he was at his limit. But I couldn’t stop myself from replying, my voice cold and almost emotionless:

“What do you want, Dad? For me to stop? To go back to a life I hate? You don’t get to decide. This is my life, not yours.”

He sighed, his gaze darkening even further.

“This isn’t a life, Anika. Look at yourself. You can’t even get up on your own easily. You just lie there, waiting for me to do everything for you… And you think that’s normal?”

My response came out almost like an attack:

“Yes, it’s normal. Because this is what I want. And if you can’t accept that, maybe you should stop coming here.”

He stayed silent for a moment, and for the first time, I saw something break inside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost resigned:

“I can’t stop. Because if I don’t take care of you, who will? But you’re destroying yourself, and I’m standing here watching, powerless. You have no idea what that feels like.”

And then he left, slamming the door behind him.

A few hours later, he came back. Like always. With a tray of food. I watched as he set the plates down on the table beside me, his movements slow and quiet. I could see it in him, he’d given up. He wasn’t fighting me or my choices anymore.

But at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about his pain or his resignation. All I could feel was a ravenous hunger. So I said, sharper than I intended:

“Hurry up. I’m hungry. Bring me the food. Now.”

He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought he might explode. But he didn’t. He just lowered his head and did what I asked, placing the plates in front of me.

I felt a flicker of guilt, but it vanished as soon as I took the first bite. I knew he was judging me, seeing my dependence as a burden. But to me, every meal was a victory. Every bite was another step in this transformation I’ve chosen.

And even if my father never understands it, even if he gives up a little more every day, I know I’ll keep going. Because this is my life, my body, and my hunger. Nothing and no one will stop me 🥵