Firstly I want to send apologies for yesterday. Some days it’s harder than others to continue this fight.
I spent last night attempting to challenge the thoughts that seem to be ambushing me at the moment, all the ones that tell me the answer to my general feelings of wrongness could be fixed if I was just at a lower number. If I was thin…if I was pretty…if I was…If I was anything but me, as though looking different would make me different.
Yet as I reflect back to the time before, when I did look different, when my body weighed more and my hair was longer it becomes clear to see that internally nothing had changed. Losing weight didn’t make me smarter, it didn’t make me funny or witty. It didn’t kill the need to self-destruct, it didn’t secure my place in the world and it didn’t make my world safe. I used to wear the eating disorder like some sort of protective charm, kept tucked in close to my heart, holding on to the belief that it would stop me from getting hurt, make me invisible or untouchable. Make me into a person who hadn’t known what it was like to have their trust violated or the foundations of themselves shaken. I sold myself into the dream that millions of women trap themselves into everyday, which is the belief that to be successful or attractive you have to be thin.
Yes I had given myself, my future, my happiness all up for an idea. Not even a very good idea, and definitely not one based on any evidence.
I say it’s getting harder to live with myself. It’s not. It’s getting harder to live with my body. It’s getting harder to realise I have one, that it has needs and that it is my responsibility to fulfil those needs if I want more to my life than spending my life curled up on the coach, in too much pain to move.
I wanted a happily ever after so much. I wanted to get to the perfect size and shape, twisted in an abnormal way and be able to find myself no longer wanting but acceptable.
No such thing.
When will I stop believing my own lies? When will I be able to fully accept that a body is just a body, not a canvas to illustrate war? When will I stop seeing that there is nothing about being thin that equates to happiness?
Mostly when will I stop blaming my body?