measured

I always want to wait to write about my eating disorder. Wait until I’m smaller, sicker-until it’s so undeniably noticeable that I’m thin. Because even though I logically know it’s not a weight issue, but a mental one, I feel a sense of embarrassment that I’m not good enough at it.

I remember being at my smallest-or what I believed was my smallest-and still being too high on the BMI scale to be classed as anorexic. While my peers were dreaming up debs dresses and potential college courses, I was devastated that I wasn’t dangerously ill.

It’s saddening. I’ve lost so much of my life to my eating disorder. I’ve tried countless times to get it under control, to let go and just be.

The first time I attempted to mend my relationship with food, my therapist told me: “If you recover-if you allow yourself to enjoy the freedom of letting go-and you’re still not happy, you can always go back to it.”

And I did. Many times.

Many times, I’ve felt at a loss-trapped in a body that seemingly refuses to shrink to my desired size. Though in all its irrationality, I’m not even sure what that size is. I don’t even know what I look like.

I was never the pretty girl. Never wore the right clothes or had cute mannerisms. I didn’t fawn over celebrities or wish to look like them, but instead idealised girls at school, women on the street-people who moved through the world in ways I couldn’t. I’ve always wished I were in a body other than my own.

And maybe I am now. It’s changed so much from the confident little girl I used to be-the one who never once felt embarrassment or shame just for existing.

I have lost so much of myself. And even if I were to gain weight, even if I were to fully recover, I don’t think I’ll ever get her back.