Food as a weapon

Using food as a weapon, or a form of self harm has been weighing heavily on me. Right now I weigh the most I ever have, a whopping 293lbs. This body of mine causes me pain and suffering, exasperating that which was previously there. It represents me in form. The fat is my sorrow, growing out of control, sometimes seemingly slow. It's all people see, and it consumes me. It controls me, the way I feel, the way I think, the way I dress or present myself. It controls my sex life, and marriage, my mentatlity, and it's never ending.
My loose skin... Oh my loose skin. You are what people could see, but I take time to hide and to ignore. I pull on you often, just to hide you within yourself. You hold my future in it's hands because even if I manage to control the fat, you'll be here; growing larger, longer, stretching me out and making me lose control.
My brain, the thing meant to control every thought and aspect of my life is spiraling out of control, unable to function; executive dysfunction; autism; depression; self hate and self loathing; you create turmoil in spaces where I should feel joy but instead you cast this dark fog and engulfes me, pulls me back and causes me to see unclearly.  The event at hand, I'm surrounded by joy and love but this fog makes them unseeable, unreachable, looking far when so near.

All this to say, because I am suffering, I am trapped in the grey between life and death, living and dying, suicide or trying... And I have no control. None whatsoever and I have no definitions for it. I want to control, so I eat. And I eat. And I drink well over 1000 calories a day, spending $20 alone on a drug to kill me... slowly. 

I used to cut. I used to dream about slicing the parts of my body off that I hated, similarly fashion as cutting planks of wood. I'd dream I'd run it through the blades and the piece would fall off... and I'd heal, and magically be that which I desired. And then waking up to return to the nightmare that is my body. 

Now. Now I don't cut. I have a family. A husband and children, people who rely on me to live but every night I go to bed I wish I was dead. So I eat. I eat. I eat. I eat to self harm because the razors are so close but so far and I can't reveal this to them that I hate myself, that I hate my existence and that I wish I was dead, and I wish the sickness within me would consume me and kill me. Slowly... But surely. If I drink the soda, eat the cake, fatten up the dressing, add in the calories, I'll die. I am in control.
But does it count? On the rare moments I am crying out for help and begging or pleading for some one to help me... Will they accept my analogy? This isn't self harm. Where is the blood? Where are the cuts? Where are the pills destroying your insides and shutting down your organs? Where is vomit, the purging, the blood vessels in your eyes?
They're in my fucking mouth as I gorge myself and hopes of death.

Fuck