i believe a liar and it's me.

 

"she looked like a skeleton"

"she looked like she was dying"

i was. but was it any of your fucking business?

"she looks healthy"

"she looks buff has she been working out?"

i have. but is it any of your fucking business?

i can understand that people were worried.

i would have been too if i saw myself for how i really looked.

but to comment on it

behind my back.

to tell my bestfriend

or text my mom.

say it to my fucking face that you are worried about me.

though that's what i want to hear.

you're feeding into it no matter who you tell.

my eating disorder is winning when you tell me i look sickly.

or tell me your worried.

my eating disorder wants to come back when you tell me i look healthy.

or tell me i look big.

i will sit there and overthink what you mean by that.

do i look bad?

is this negative?

is this an insult???

and part of me likes it.

like i want to be destroyed by your words.

so my eating disorder can take the reins

so she can fix it all.

but she's a liar.

and i believe her.

sometimes i find myself missing her.

i'll feel the hunger pains

the stinging of my stomach

my body goes numb

but once you get past that pain

it feels like an accomplishment

my eating disorder is cheering me on.

and then i'm no longer hungry.

the more you keep going

the less food in your system

the less you notice.

you are only focused on winning this game.

a game where you inevitably die at the end

but she convinces you, you're on top of the world.

sure i couldn't sit on a chair without excruciating pain

but the praise i got for a flat stomach made it all better.

and while my mom prepared for my death

i stood in the mirror admiring myself for the first time.

the way my collarbones stuck out

and my fingers could wrap around my arms

my leg gap became wider

and oh how my hip bones showed in every outfit.

my socks no longer felt tight

never left an indent.

my pants needed belts

even leggings looked baggy

my sweatshirts consumed me

my rings were falling off

but i felt pretty.

getting stared at i felt admired

though i know now it was fear.

being told i looked emaciated made me jump for joy

but i couldn't jump as my legs could snap beneath me.

i was never told during that time of my life

that i looked pretty

that i looked glowy

or "healthy"

and yet i felt all those things.

my eyes were sunken in

my fingers were purple

bruises covered my legs

and i had no energy

yet i looked at myself in the mirror and thought i was pretty.

i felt proud.

i felt it was the one thing i could do.

or the one thing my eating disorder convinced me i was capable of.

and i was.

now being at a healthy weight.

i sometimes see someone pretty in the mirror

and sometimes i think i need to go back to starving. 

i am told that i'm pretty.

and i overthink it.

was i not pretty before?

i get told i look healthy.

what does that mean?

did i not look healthy before?

do you mean i've gained weight?

do you know?

can you tell?

i get told i look buff.

do you mean i look big?

i knew my arms looked too big in this shirt.

i get told that something isn't going to fit me

that they were surprised it fits.

did you not think it was going to?

do you assume im too big for everything??

why do you feel the need to compliment my body?

but why does part of me want to hear it?

why does part of me want to dissect your comment and take it to the extremes?

why do i take it negatively?

is this just engraved in my head?

just as calories are?

the way i can easily calculate everything on my plate

i can go through everything i've eaten in the day and add it all together almost instantaneously.

and even when i know how many calories are in something

i catch myself checking the label anyways.

and i will enjoy the food im making

yet that number is the only thing i'm thinking about

and later im wondering if i should've eaten that.

would i have felt better if i didn't?

would i look better?

i am grieving my eating disorder again.

its been a year of genuine recovery

and i still miss it.

i miss the feeling

i miss the stares.

i miss the good parts i remember

if you could even call them good.

i miss having a constant

i miss it all.

i think i even miss the bad parts.

the times i would wake up surprised that i didn't die

the grin id get from seeing my heart rate lower that 41.

thinking through all my food that day and realizing i never ate.

i miss falling down rabbit holes of anorexic girls

how tiny they looked

how little they ate

and i couldn't see i looked just like them.

i can convince everyone im recovered

but deep down i really do miss it

i miss the accomplishments

i miss the hunger pains

i miss the goal weights

i miss hearing "i'm worried about you"

i miss feeling like i'm good at something.

and i can look at pictures and know that i wasn't healthy

i know i looked like a skeleton

like i was one day away from landing in the ER

but only i can say it

i can accept that

i can say it to my therapist

i can write about it

i can scream it for all i care.

but no one else should be able to tell me i looked awful

that i looked skinny

that i looked dead.

not to my face

and ESPECIALLY not to other people

dont fucking talk about me

or my body

past or present.

i love to hear how my eyeliner looks

or how my outfit is color coordinated

but i don't want to hear how you could see every bone in my body back then

and i don't want to hear how much better i look now.

it's not your place

and i'm not sure why you'd think it is. 

worry about your own shit.

because i am one comment away from doing it all over again.

-o