writing is hard

Talking about my eating disorder is quite difficult, and so is writing about it. Instead of providing a soul-grabbing, emotion-stirring, thought-provoking monologue, here are some lists:

People who have made me feel bad about my body
My best friend in fifth grade, for being mean to me and running away from me at recess everyday
My mother, for many reasons
My little sister, indirectly because people always like her better and tell her she's pretty
The girls in my town, for being so confident and good at lacrosse

Things I have done to lose weight
Counted calories
Stopped eating carbs
Made myself throw up

Things I used to do everyday
Weigh myself
Look at myself in the mirror and cry
Pinch the skin on my thighs, and cry
Daydream about food
Wonder what death will be like
Yell at my mother, and then cry in my room alone

Things I am afraid of
Sandwiches
Rice
Speaking in class
Speaking in front of large audiences
Leaving the house without a jacket or shirt to cover my arms
The dark
Gaining weight
Being naked

Things that make me happy
Sunshine
Climbing mountains
Running through the woods
Chocolate
Friends who can make me laugh
Dresses
Iced coffee
Good dancers
My sister, because she actually is cooler than me

Things I've learned over the past few years
People are still nice to me even if I'm not thin
My presence and what I have to say is appreciated
My body is strong and I need it to be strong so I can run and hike
Food keeps my body strong

Recently my best friend who I thought was so strong and confident and safe relapsed. I felt like I was talking to a stranger- she hadn't eaten that day, and what she ate the night before she had thrown up. She had been doing this for two weeks. Mine had never been that bad- I never had that amount of control. But the feelings were familiar. Disgust at food entering your stomach, imagining it going to your thighs next. You are trapped. You can't remember a time when you didn't feel this way.

I haven't felt that way in a long time. More than my fear of gaining weight, I am afraid of relapse. I am so ridiculously happy right now, more than I ever could have imagined three or five or ten years ago. I wish I could show my ten-year-old self how amazing her life could be in the future, and thank her for keeping herself alive, even though she really didn't want to. But I doubt she would recognize me.

voices notes 2

I used to think that people wouldn't like me unless I was thin. That's because when I was little I was a bit overweight and no one liked me. Recently, my friend asked me when I decided to become "the sweetest person, like, ever." I told him it was after I was bullied in fifth grade. When all my friends stopped talking to me, I stopped talking to anyone, for a long while (or at least it felt that way). It was for maybe two years that I cringed at the sound of my own voice, expecting disapproval or seemingly harmless teasing; this fear follows me even today, when group discussions and participation points come close to giving me anxiety. I was conditioned to be as invisible as possible. Not being noticed was better.
I barely ate for about five years: it started by eliminating soda, then sweets, then all carbs. Sandwiches make me very nervous; so do rice and pasta. I ate 1200 calories every day, or fewer, if I could. My junior year of high school I started eating a lot, to cope with various stressors that all converged upon my life at once. I gaind weight, which stressed me more, and I ate more. I would make myself throw up after shoving half a pan of brownies down my throat. Every day I came home and weighed myself and cried alone in my bed and thought about what death would be like.
It's really hard to describe what happened to me, mainly for two reasons. The first is that I don't know how people will take it. I've only told close friends, and they've given me so much support and love both before and after I share my secrets that it makes me optimistic about telling more people. But I'm still wary of those who don't know me well and what their assumptions will be; this is only one part of me, not my whole person, and I would rather it not be the first thing people think of or refer to me as. And the second reason my story is difficult to tell is that it's so much- there are too many elements and factors and subplots that I have trouble remembering them all but I need to keep them straight and I need to give them all in one go. This story is unique, as each one is: it is not enough to say that I have an eating disorder, or that I was anorexic and bulimic and am in recovery. I need to tell the whole story.
It still comes back to me and affects many of the decisions I make in my day-to-day life. I am happier right now than I have ever been, but I still carry it with me and I can't imagine a time when I won't. Things have changed, though- I don't pinch the fat on my legs and imagine cutting it out with scissors. I don't start sobbing when I look at myself in the mirror- although I still do look.
When did I decide to become the "sweetest person, like, ever"? When I decided that what happened to me should not happen to anyone else. I deserve to enjoy my life, as do you.