If I squeeze my eyes shut
tight enough,
I can still remember being
five years old,
and the feeling of that
one
vicious
word
echoing
through my bones
for the first time;
FAT.
Everywhere I looked,
there were visions of
all that I was not;
beautiful, flawless, skinny
women,
gallivanting across TV screens,
magazine covers,
my beloved ballet studio –
& there I was,
that one little girl
who stuck out like a
right angle
in a world full of
perfect planes.
I spent so long convinced
that all of my problems
were rooted in the
size of my stomach,
and that if only I were
a few pounds lighter,
everything would
miraculously be okay.
But of course,
that wasn’t the case.
With every pound I lost,
my disorder demanded
I lose five more –
dragging me down the
path of self-destruction
until all that was left
was the shell of the
girl I once was.
For so long my illness
was my sun, my moon,
my stars, and my sky;
I knew the world it kept
me in was killing me,
but I just couldn’t be
bothered to care.
Finally it drove me to
a point of desperation,
a whirlwind of IV fluids
and heart rate monitors –
and at first I thought
finally
someone was going to
fix me –
Except those white-coat-wielding
bastards didn’t actually
give a damn if I lived
or if I died,
only that I didn’t succumb
while they were on shift –
Instead they snubbed me with
a pathetic bottle of pills
and sent me on my way,
hurdling down a rollercoaster
of treatment and discharge,
recovery and relapse;
none of it ever worked.
It turns out others could
keep me breathing,
but I had to choose
if I wanted to
live.
And finding reasons why
I am allowed to
take up space
after years of
devoting every
ounce of strength
to making myself shrink
is no easy feat –
Every day is still a struggle.
Things that seem so
arbitrary to others
are nothing short of
revolutionary to me –
every morning I
get out of bed;
a victory,
every bite I put
in my mouth;
a rebellion,
against the voices
screaming that I am too
fat/stupid/ugly/dumb/worthless
to deserve it,
insisting that I am not
smart/perfect/sick/pretty/good
enough to be worth it.
Every day is still a struggle.
I am learning to
let myself fight
for a life I
never thought I
deserved;
to get out of
my own way
and give myself
permission to live.
And when I say live
I do not merely mean
exist – no –
I mean laying on
the shore to watch
a thousand sunsets,
I mean stopping in
the rain to splash
in the biggest puddle,
I mean letting go
of all of the
pretenses & perfections
and letting myself be,
truly,
freely,
fiercely be –
To let myself show up
to life as I am
and let that be enough.
Every day is still a struggle.
Nevertheless,
I am delighted
with reminders
that things will not
always be this way;
an unplanned laugh
finding its way
out of my mouth,
a renewed sparkle
in my eyes
where there was
once only apathy.
Every day is still a struggle.
But every day I dare to try,
and that is a beautiful thing.