Well shit.

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Photo by Connor Botts on Unsplash

I was raised with the notion that we were all going to die a horrible death some day. The possibility of societal meltdown or apocalypse was not a matter of if, it was a matter of when. And that moment of “the shit hitting the fan” is, and has always been, just around the corner.

My dad is a self proclaimed survivalist. I was in 2nd grade when 9/11 happened and he had a field day with it. He began collecting guns, water, and survival food. …


Change your body, change your mind.

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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Please note that eating disorders are complex and require a lot of strength to cope with, both when in recovery and when not. In order to truly heal one might require therapy and/or medication, doctor guidance, recovery coaching, etc. It is a long and intense process that requires a lot of introspection and trial and error. Please keep that in mind as you read through the following, which describes a jumping off point that has proven invaluable to myself as well as many others going through similar.

I spent over a decade waking up every morning and wishing I was either someone else, or no one at all. I would wish this before I opened my eyes in the morning and long for it throughout each day. I would daydream about who I might have been without anorexia or bulimia. About the things I would do if I were every to fully recover. Thoughts like that were akin to daydreaming about winning the lottery, or waking up with superpowers. It was nice to think about, but not at all something I believed I’d be capable of. …


Tools for your toolbox.

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Photo by Johnson Wang on Unsplash

*ED is Eating Disorder abbreviated.

Y’all.

Since Christmas, I have gained a metric fuck-ton of weight.

I’m not sure exactly how much because I am absolutely terrified of facing the scale, but I’d say I’m just under what is considered a medically healthy BMI. Considering where I started, that does indeed fall under the definition of “metric fuck-ton.”

My emotions around this simple fact of a larger body cycle with each hour. I am angry. I am scared, ashamed, and embarrassed. …


And cut off your leg while you’re at it.

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Photo by Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

Here, swallow this rat poison. Sprinkle it over your salad; it adds zest and will give you a youthful glow.

Take a hacksaw to your hip, right where the joint rolls into the pelvis. Rip through both muscle and bone, grip your thigh and twist, removing your leg from your body the way one tears the leg off a turkey. Doing so will be worth it, I promise you.

Douse your hair in gasoline and set it on fire. Put it out before it damages your body enough to actually kill you, but not before it gives your face a thick, mottled burn. It’ll be so painful in the moment but again, you won’t regret it. …


On learning to live with social anxiety.

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Photo by Drew Hays on Unsplash

First and foremost, this bit of ranting can be applied to pretty much anything that falls under the mental illness umbrella. However, I write from a personal vantage and because of that, I am focusing solely on anxiety in the following.

Second, when I claim the title of “anxious,” I am not using it as an interchangeable adjective for quirky or endearing. I see a lot of that online; in my middle school days, it was the cool thing to be “sooOoOooOOoo rAnDom.” Presently, that same sort of childish inclination to be “different…in a cool way” can be applied to a very specific brand of social anxiety that is embraced among current media influencers. Introversion is the hit thing right now. Canceling plans and staying in to watch Netflix is relatable. When taken at face value this is not inherently a bad thing, at least until that label of “introvert” or “anxious” becomes synonymous with each other and suddenly, true anxiety as a disorder is not seen as much of an issue at all. Rather, it has become a name-tag that can be slapped on and then peeled off at will. …


My body keeps asking me this and I don’t have an answer.

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Photo by Blake Lisk on Unsplash

I have a strange disconnect with my body. Its hard to explain in a way that seems accurate; there is me, and there is the thing I’m attached to. When it comes to the bodies of others I am able to understand. Those bodies are real. They run off calories and co-exist with the brains that guide them. They are solid and formed of matter and are held down and together by physics and biology.

But when it comes to my own body, I just can’t wrap my head around it.

What are you trying to prove? This body, this thing that I can’t understand, asks as I stand on the scale again. In the present I obsess about being almost half a pound heavier today than I was yesterday, for seemingly no reason. Rationally speaking, I know that I have a BMI of under 14 and that half pound is just my body trying to keep itself alive with whatever it can find. It is my corporeal form acting separate from me, an entity in itself that is out of my control. …


Apparently my psyche is scattered with them.

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Photo by Chris Slupski on Unsplash

I’m anxious. And behind all that anxiety I’m pissed off. Or at least that’s what I’m told.

I don’t feel angry. Not in any tangible sense. It used to be that every once in a while it would grip me and I would rage for about 10 to 15 seconds before reigning it in again. Never violently, but briefly and loudly and usually manifesting through a raised voice and some tears. It was also always in relation to recovery from my eating disorder, meaning that if I was pursuing that particular lifestyle at that point in time my “anger” was finally showing itself. …


A step by step guide by someone who has lived that life.

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Photo by Pablo Merchán Montes on Unsplash

I remember waking up to the mess of it more than the actual act itself. You had gone off to work and left me laying exposed, shorts yanked down around my ankles, thighs and belly smeared in the lube you used to fuck this unconscious body that no longer belonged to me. My night stand was knocked over, and all the blankets were bunched up at the foot of the bed.

The bedroom door was wide open. My best friend was still passed out drunk in the living room, and I hoped to hell she hadn’t walked by at any point to use the bathroom during the night. She’d have seen me like that. …


And your wallet.

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Photo by Andrii Podilnyk on Unsplash

Disclaimer: Please understand that while I am writing this specific piece mostly for women, I do acknowledge that insecurity is not at all specific to the female gender. The reason I am bulk referring to the “targeted” as women is because, in my personal experience, its women that bear the brunt of pressure from diet culture. I do not intend to exclude or offend anyone. Weight related insecurities are experienced across the board by men and women alike.

Okay, maybe the diet industry is not out to get me personally.

Rather, it is out to get women in general. Diet culture and everything that propagates it is a machine fueled entirely by the financial value of our insecurity. When viewed fiscally women are priceless — each individual wracking up countless pennies’ worth (not the clown) of shame toward their bodies. …


Death isn’t always unwelcome.

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Photo by Glen Hodson on Unsplash

Names have been changed to protect the individuals involved.

She is a blob of a woman. That sounds cruel, but in trying to think of more accurate adjectives to describe the image she presents my mind draws a blank.

She is 96, tall, and soft. Amorphous not in an obese way, but in the sense that I can’t quite tell where she ends and her clothing begins. There is a heft to her body that doesn’t match up to the mind that rides around inside it — she does not look 96. When picturing a woman that old I see small, thin and frail. Ms. Davis is none of these things. …

About

Emily Kate

Disordered babbling and emotional weirdness.

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