May 19th / 3 notes ♥I lost my job, my sense of identity, my self worth, my hair, my medical insurance, my social life and a bit of weight. I hurt my heart, my teeth, my nails, my throat, my boyfriend, my family, myself, my friends. I tried to kill myself and spent months sharing a bathroom with over ten other people, in a bedroom with a window in the wall through which someone watched me 24/7. I made a fool of myself walking in circles in a closed ward, jogging on the balcony, doing pushups and sit-ups and tearfully begging the nurses to let me weigh myself just once so that I could make sure I hadn’t gained any weight. I avoided social contact for fear that someone would catch a whiff of the vomit smell that wouldn’t wash away from my hands or the stench of food I’d stuffed into my sleeves and pockets to avoid eating. I spent nights in tears, feeling the uneven beat of my heart through my ribcage, refusing to fall asleep for fear I’d never wake up. I wanted to cut open my skin and see the bones, make sure they were there. I wanted to be as painful for other people to look at, as I am for myself.
Was it worth all the trouble? I never reached my goal weight. I never could have. I was never satisfied with myself, never liked myself any more, never felt like I fit in my body and never would have. Someone told me yesterday that she almost wished she could have an eating disorder, to lose a few pounds. I didn’t trust myself to tell her the truth - that she might lose a few pounds, or too many, that she might even gain weight; those things are never certain and flip flop so often over the course of an eating disorder, it would be impossible to predict. The only certainty I wish I had given her was how much of her life and herself she would lose if she chose to fall into the never-ending pit of an ED, and how backbreakingly difficult it is to come back out.
