A book about the ups and downs of whatever is happening, and a places for me to show you my pictures ? if any parts are perhaps triggering, there I'll be a warning at the beginning of the chapter with ⚠️ so you can just skip past x
It was so easy to start. I didn't like my thighs. I wanted to strip away the fat- just a little bit, nothing drastic, just a little less this meal. No more cookies and sweet things- you know they're naughty. Only low fat yoghurt, never real butter, just margarine. No rice. No bread. No pasta. Who needs carbs? I could do without. How amazing it felt; how light, how free. So much energy- never hungry. I was not a slave to the rumblings of my stomach anymore. Boys secretly would ask and I would smile because it was so easy. A month went by, and then two, and I no longer needed to buy sanitary pads. My grocery list was as long as my thumbnail and tasted like broccoli and lettuce and rice cakes: it's easy to save money when you're starving. Three months went by and the flesh between my hipbones began to dip down and erode like a great valley. For months and my clavicles could carry oceans between them. Five months and the tall jagged towers of my spine erupted from my back and I would run my fingers down them and my body would ring out like a hollow symphony. Sure, I was thin, but certainly not too thin. Though, when they said I was too thin it pleased me. "You don't eat very much do you?" They would say, well, "she certainly isn't fat", "have you lost more weight?" "You look good" "You look like a model" "look at yourself" "look at your arms" "look at your body" "LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO YOURSELF". It was so easy. My nails broke away like dead leaves and my hair gathered in clumps in the drain of the shower and littered the floor of my room- I didn't brush it anymore so it wouldn't fall out. It didn't matter anyway. It didn't matter that my face was red and swollen with the scattered remains of burst acne. It didn't matter that the clothes I wore did not match and did not fit. Boys no longer looked at me like meat because there was no meat left to look at and it pleased me. It was so easy at first. But, then, it became hard. It became hard to run. After I exercised I would lie on my bed and watch the stars flash and the dark sink into my eyes. It became hard to walk. The air and light outside made me feel dizzy. It became hard to move- my heartbeat became so fast, fast enough to burst my chest, even when I did little more than blink. It became hard to think. I could think only of the food that I could not have. I looked at the pictures of the food I would never eat like prepubescent boys looked at pictures of girls they would never sleep with. It became very hard to feel. Mostly I felt nothing at all, but sometimes I would feel everything. And then, it became very hard to exist. But, hardest of all was to stop.
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Highest.⬆️
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Lowest.⬆️
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Recovery ⬆️💛
Recovery is not easy- but it is a journey well worth taking. It's extra hard especially when the NHS tells you you're not ill enough for help. It makes you feel fat, like a failure , on top of all of the negative things you already feel about your body image. Don't wait until it gets too late, or until people notice how scarily quickly you've wasted away. If you are not recovering then you are dying... It's okay not to be 100% okay. If you are struggling, then you are ill. No one is more ill than the other. We are all deserving of help and safety. There are so many foundations out there to support you no matter your circumstances. As hard as each day is, it is so worth the fight. You can do this. Recovery is possible. Help is out there. And it sure is worth it.
