Trigger Warning: This post contains an extensive discussion of anorexia.
Here is what makes you panic most, self, not the weight now, but the weight then.
You felt colossus-like—you took up other’s air. But retrospect says you did not know, did not see, how you were more than ample. How could you miss it? Sore-thumb in every photograph.
You sat in that prison body, eating.
Everyone saw. Everybody knows you were ugly.
And still you are, less but more, miles of you to go.
All your best efforts amount to this: you were fatter then but you are fat now, and you are not yet a person. You are only a blob with a name.
Hush, self. Be quiet, soul.
You have not eaten so well in longer than you can remember. Do not think of this as failure when images of stick figure girls make you ache like nostalgia, like remember-the-good-old-days. If you could hang ornaments from your ribs, self you say, you would not fear the cookie in your hand; you would be cleansed.
This disorder in your head has teeth, self. It will eat you up.
Remember your world, remember stories and dreaming. Now your laptop needs more chair than you. And still you insist you must dwindle. Inside your deseccated brain you find remnants of what was and could have been. Self, this is what you fought for. Self, it was not worth it.
You should be angry they insisted waistlines mattered.
Self, you don’t have time to strip yourself of life. Let these lies dwindle in your stead. You have purpose; you are not finished yet.