It’s not easy to recover from an eating disorder. More than just gaining weight and rebuilding your strength, it takes courage to step above the conventional idealism of skinny being ‘in’. It takes effort to swallow blunt, tactless, and often mindless and unconstructive comments about how you’ve put on weight – which is more often than not followed by a disapproving look.

‘Dear me, how could you have let yourself go?’ 

It’s hard, and even after organising a workshop on self-love, the unrealistic female ideals, and eating disorders, I struggle daily with remembering it’s what’s on the inside that counts. But I do it, because at the end of the day, it’s me who matters. 

“You’re twice your size!” – I am angry but I force a smile. As the lift door slides open, I run. I run fast. Fuck you, I think.  Do you know because I was half my current size before that my reproductive system is fucked up? That I am anemic and I need Iron pills? That I can’t menstruate? That there’s a possibility that my bones aren’t as dense as an average 23 yr old?

I run it off. And I think to myself, I’m skipping dinner. I’m skipping dinner and I’ll show you.

But

I

Can’t

I can’t because it hurts. Physically and emotionally – the thought of hurting myself pains me. Self hatred is painful, the most painful thing in the world. And I’m not going to turn to it just to fit your mold. Or anyone else’s mold of perfect.

I forgive you, but I cannot let myself get close to you. I love myself much more than that.