But you were my best friend
Saying goodbye to your eating disorder is the hardest thing you will ever do.
\At first, you don’t see the problem. Everybody else sees you for your insufficient aesthetic, and reminds you every single day. Everywhere you look, signs inform you how you eat too much, speak too loudly, do too little, and how you are simply not beautiful. Your friends laugh when you buy clothes two sizes larger than theirs. Your aunt always comments on how you got ‘bigger’ when she hugs you. Surely if everybody else thinks there is a problem, then you need a solution.
That solution comes to you in the form of tiny, helpful little thoughts in your head on how you can snip little parts of your life out, and add in different details. No more soda. No more ketchup. No more crisps. Small, harmless little rules that nobody notices. Except now those little thoughts aren’t so small anymore, and you are bound by a million rules and restrictions. There are more prohibitions than allowances, and each day is almost as empty as your stomach, but at least you now buy clothes that are two sizes smaller than your friends. You are always cold, you can’t eat at home without feeling sick, you can’t even look at ice cream, and when you smile it just doesn’t feel the same. You are an abandoned warehouse with nothing but cracks in the foundations, and you are on the verge of collapse.
The horrible, ugly truth that you never consider when those little thoughts started is that recovery feels like an uphill assault course. You may never look in the mirror and see what you really look like. Your mind will twist every aspect of your life and turn it against you, and on some nights you may curl up in bed hating yourself. Some people describe it as a fight against all their demons, and sometimes you get left with scars so deep you fear you will never be rid of them. But sometimes, it isn’t a fight, but listening to the little voices in the back of your head that tell you you’re beautiful, that life is short and you can’t live it for other people. It is learning that sometimes, not having control over everything is a good thing, and you can let go. Lay back, let your head sink half-way into the water, and let go. It is learning that strength is not fixation, but acceptance. It is embracing all your flaws and learning to love yourself as much as you love each and every part of everything else that is slightly bent and damaged.
I plastered my recovery with beautiful ribbons and scrapbook pages, sweet notes from the happy little voices in my head. I filled it with my favourite things, with pictures of smiles and memories of those who loved me regardless of the numbers on my jeans. I gave away all the clothes that were two sizes too small. I scratched out all my rules on eating ‘right’ and exercising ‘well’. I counted the number of smiles I brought to faces instead of meals. I stopped looking too hard in the mirror and looked instead at the world around me, and how beautiful it could be, when the traces of humanity was scraped away. If chaos and imperfection could be the most wonderful sight in the world, then how could I possibly be ugly? How could I possibly be ugly?
There were days when it would have been easy to give up. There were many days when I almost did. It is so easy to turn your emotions and your darkness into an abusive relationship with your food. Food in all cultures is associated with family, and my family has always been broken. But I looked at all the things I had when I was recovered, and all the spaces left void when I was sick, and knew that I had made the right decision. If I had no family, I would build one from the dusty rubble that had been left, crater-like in my heart. I would not let a disease strip me of one of my childhood passions. I would not let a disease strip me of the joy and ease with which I do the things I love.
So everyday I cook, and I don’t care about the health benefits of each ingredient. I don’t limit myself to baby-sized plates or fist-sized portions, because I will stop eating when I am full. I will wear a bikini to the beach whether or not I look like the girls in magazines, because I bought this bikini and now I have a right to say how it will be worn. I will hike for hours and hours so I can see what the world looks like from high above. I will kayak through the secret canals of a city all day. I will see more of the world because I have the strength to do so. I am no longer breathing without living, and it is because I battled through the dirt to get to where I am. And everyone who has done the same deserves a fucking medal.
