I’ve written about this shitty in-between state so many times before, haven’t I? Always so hopeful that revealing it all will help me change.
The belly wakes up first: it needs the most protecting. After all, this is where a kind of magic happens.
The film fails to bring on any overwhelming emotions, I think because it fails to truly connect viewers with each character if they haven’t also read the book. Despite this, there’s a worthy message at the end.
Self-criticism is common to us all, and if we’re constantly comparing ourselves to dubiously ‘perfect’ humans we’re only fueling that fire.
My body is not functioning at its full capacity because I stopped my recovery halfway—I didn’t keep going, and in fact even in my strongest moments I was still consumed by thoughts of food and weight.
The constant anxieties I’ve already been facing on a daily basis ramp up, increasing their volume just enough so that the struggle is noticeably worse. I’m not eating less now, only beating myself up more for what I do consume.
Traveling with an eating disorder—whether you’re in the thick of it, in recovery, or consider yourself recovered—is a loaded move. While non-ED-afflicted humans rejoice in the opportunity to let loose, indulge endlessly, and take a break from the treadmill, I find myself panicking for weeks (if not months) beforehand.
I’m not sure what convened the other day to tear the disordered gauze from my eyes, but, on an impromptu shopping trip, I managed to see myself in a more realistic light. And, in that light, I saw a sexless, hollow creature with nothing to grab at or touch, someone who looked like she was once again becoming a shell of herself.
Food is our first experience of love and comfort—quite literally, as we immediately bond with our mothers via breastfeeding or the like. I was once fully capable of feeding myself in a ‘normal’ manner, but then somewhere along the way I started to see myself as less deserving of that nourishment—which is to say, less deserving of love.