It’s the behaviors. It’s the mindset. It’s that feeling of being torn between disorder and recovery.

He gets that.

When he went to a group with me the other night, he said that one woman in particular didn’t seem like she was doing well. She’s a healthy weight, she looks relatively healthy, but he still knew, by the way she carried herself and spoke about the disorder, that she wasn’t doing well.

Most people think that if you’re a healthy weight, it’s not really much of a concern.

But it is.

Purging is never okay. Skipping meals is never okay. Harming yourself intentionally is never okay.

He reminds me of that every day.

Today was full of panic and sadness and revelations, all at once.

All day, I freaked out, planned how I would avoid every meal. I was succeeding…until I went to my boyfriend’s house. He knew I hadn’t eaten just by the way that I looked. “I don’t want to be angry at you, but I am. I don’t want to worry about you, but I have to. I don’t want you to die, but you’re doing it anyway.” He looked like he was going to cry. He hugged me but didn’t seem to want to touch me. Later, he told me that my body wasn’t attractive to him this way. “I like something to hold on to. I can’t hold on to bone. I touch you and I feel like you’ll shatter.”

It was weird to hear him say this. All of my friends always kind of avoided the subject, and any boyfriend I’ve had when things got bad either liked me sick or left when it got too crazy. It was weird to hear him say that he was worried, to get angry that I was still doing this knowing that I am basically walking toward my death.

We ate a little bit later, went back to his house and relaxed for a bit. When I went to leave though, I couldn’t seem to stay conscious. I tried to keep it together as we walked by his parents. “They’re not as dumb as they look you know.”

I asked him if they had said anything. Apparently, a few days ago, his mother asked him if I was okay when I left. “Is she okay, what’s going on with her? She got too skinny.”

That freaked me out. I went full circle since 10th grade when my ex-boyfriend’s mother told him that I looked like I had lost too much weight. Surprisingly enough, I didn’t see it then either. I still see an obese girl in the mirror, yet everyone else sees someone sickly and weak. I don’t want to be seen as that girl. I don’t want to BE that girl.

I saw pictures of myself and was mortified at how sick, stressed and tired I look. I can’t believe that I let it get this far.

I don’t remember when it got like this. I don’t remember where that line was from self-hatred to self-destruction. I don’t remember where it went from being the skinny girl to being the sick girl.

I don’t want to be that anymore. I don’t want to be sick, I don’t want to look frail or feeble, and I most definitely don’t want my boyfriend to lose his attraction to me. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me, I’m not giving him up for this…for anything.

I’ve decided I’m not ready to die. I’m not ready to leave my boyfriend or my family or my friends. I’m not ready to give up living just yet.

I know it’s going to be a struggle, but I guess living has to include recovering. To live, I need to eat. I need to weigh enough. I need to be healthy. It’s going to be hard, but maybe this was a wake up call for me. Maybe it was just what I needed: a kick in the ass to get me going. I want to recover. I’m not sure I’m ready, but if not now, when? It’s time to live. It’s time to recover.

It’s a step in the right direction that I believe that he believes the words he’s saying to me, right?

He told me that once a week we are going to sit down and just say the things that I’ve never believed about myself.

We sat in my room for over an hour tonight just saying “I am not that fat.” Mostly because I couldn’t even handle saying “I am not fat,” nonetheless “I am beautiful.” So he calls this a half step. Not even up to step one and I practically broke into tears trying to say “I am not that fat.”

So each week, we’re going to get a little closer to “I am beautiful.”

I don’t believe that I am anything but fat, ugly, disgusting and obese…

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

But somehow, maybe I saw it in his eyes as we talked, I believe that he believes that I am beautiful and attractive and sexy…I believe that he believes that I am good enough.

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

I want to believe that. I opened up to him tonight in a way that was so difficult. I could barely get the words out at first, the thoughts coming out so incoherently. But I finally let it out. That I feel like everyone is lying to me, not because I am stubborn, but because if I see something in the mirror with my own eyes, how am I supposed to believe that anything but that image is the truth? You see something fall from the sky, but everyone in the world tells you it didn’t happen, aren’t you going to think that they are wrong?

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

That’s why I want to go into science, into nutrition, and into psychology. I want to know why my brain cannot process the image of my own body as it does other peoples, why people with eating disorders think they are larger than every person in the room, even when they are the smallest. Why did I think that I wouldn’t be able to fit into my boyfriend’s pants when he weighs over a hundred pounds more than me? Why do I freak out over the jealousy I feel for my obese friend? I’m not obese. Medically speaking, I am a “normal” weight. Why can’t I see that? I want to know, biologically, why I can’t see myself the way others see me. I want to know how our brains work differently. Is it electric current it our brains? Does it have something to do with our eyes? Is it a chemical imbalance? At least if I knew the answer, I could say okay, my *insert bodily malfunction here* doesn’t allow me to see my body in the way that I should, so I can’t go by this judgment… But until that day comes that I or some other scientist discovers that reason…how am I supposed to believe anything other than that fat, disgusting image of a girl that stares back at me in that mirror.

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

I told him all of this tonight. I saw tears well up in his eyes for a moment. “I couldn’t be any happier that you told me all of this. Instead of ‘I feel fat and icky’ I got a real thought process, a real feeling and mind set out of you. I know a little piece of what you’re going through. I want to help you through this.” That’s what he said. He wants to hear me ramble about all of the things that bother me about this disorder. Telling him this made him see the side of me that is hurting, rather than a girl calling herself fat for attention (which he assured me that he never thought about me.)

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

Maybe it’s okay to open up. Maybe it’s okay to tell him how I’m really feeling. He isn’t going to run like the rest of them. If I lose more weight than he would want me to, he isn’t going to disappear like some of them have. He isn’t going to get mad. Yes. He gets disappointed, frustrated and angry sometimes. But it’s because he cares about me. He loves me. I love him.

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

I’m going to start a list on my mirror: I am beautiful because….

I am intelligent. I am ambitious. I am not too fat. I am petite. I am bubbly. I have a great laugh. I have a great smile. I have a great body.

Even the ones that I don’t believe, I’ll write so I’ll see it when I look at myself and say…

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

I’ll believe it some day.

“When you lose faith in everything else, believe in me baby, because I believe in you. I know you can do this. You are not too fat. You are beautiful.” Those were his words. He has faith in me. I have faith in him…and myself.

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

I’ll ring in the new year with some positive changes: a new attitude, a new outlook on life, a new outlook on recovery.

I am not too fat. I will be successful. I can do anything I put my mind to. I am beautiful. I am creative and kind and confident and strong…

Okay. So those things were a little hard to say, so for right now, I’ll stick to…

I am not too fat. I am not too fat. I am not too fat.

Happy new year everyone. And welcome the new me.

Ever get insulted when a friend jokes around with you? Feel angry when a friend says you’re funny looking or too short or too tall or too loud? I have.

I used to get so upset when my really good friend, who is really sarcastic, would joke that I was “funny looking.” Thinking about it, he only said it because he knew that I’d get playfully angry. He’d say something like “There was this funny-looking girl, kind looked like Meghan!” Now, at first, I would get “playfully” mad, but I would get upset. I’d go home and wonder what he meant, freak out about what part of me he was talking about and how I could change it. I’d stop eating, I’d throw up, I’d cut trying to make myself better. He, of course, had no idea that it affected me this way- how could he? People make jokes. That’s all they are, jokes.

So I went to his house the other day. He joked that I was “funny-looking.” He joked that I was “the teleporting fat guy,” which is some stupid Youtube video. If you need a laugh, watch the video. And I got upset. But then I started thinking, he wouldn’t be joking around with me about this if it were true. He jokes that I’m short, but I like being short, and he knows that. He wouldn’t say I was the “teleporting fat guy” if he thought I was fat, and he wouldn’t laugh when I was right there if he meant that I was funny looking. He wouldn’t be saying it to my face if he meant any of those things. A joke is a joke.

I can’t believe that it took me so long to realize that these jokes were just jokes, that it was all in my head that people were really thinking all of the things that I thought they were and that the people who say they love me really do.

We are all beautiful, inside and out, if we believe that we are.

Stay strong loves<3

Why do we run when a car is speeding toward us? Flee when a bullet bangs through a gun? Scream when we are threatened? Because we are meant to fight to survive, and fear death.

I think the problem that so many of us have is that we fear living and are fighting to die. We fight the fuel that is given to us, kick and scream when they try to save us, and push away the people that tell us that this will not lead to happiness, but it will lead to death. Why do we fear living, or really, what is it that we fear about living? We fear failure, we fear rejection..but why does that lead to self-destruction? We are assuring that we fail in life by succeeding in the disorder.

I couldn’t help but think that this thinking seems to backwards, that we believe by destroying ourselves, we keep ourselves from feeling the pain of rejection and failure…but we feel that pain anyway, but the disorder amplifies it.

Why do we fear living when nothing could be more scary than dying? I’m not saying that we should fear death, but we are in our prime and fighting to die…why can we not live, and when our time comes, accept death with open arms?

I apologize if this was a scattered mess, but I felt like I had to get this off my chest.

Dear bloggers,

It’s been hard lately; I’ve been on the verge of relapse, but I feel like I should set a good example for those of you that I want to inspire. Those of you that I want to help. It’s hard to hold it together right now; I keep searching for someone to help me, seeking advice or guidance that no one can seem to give me.

I feel like I’m seeking attention, just looking for someone to pity me. Is that the disorder talking, or my own voice? I hate that they seem to sound the same, I can never seem to tell the difference. I know that I’m not just searching for attention. I’m searching for answers. I can’t seem to find the answers that I want or the help that I so desperately need. I don’t know what I need or what I want, but I know that I need something.

I hope that none of you think less of me for slipping; I’m struggling but I’m not completely giving in. I can’t give in, but I have to. I want to but I don’t. I need this.  I need to recover.

I don’t know what I need. I need something or someone.

Maybe I’m looking for someone to save me, but the only one who can save me is myself. Maybe the answers I search for simply do not exist. But I know that recovery does, and I will find it someday.

Stay strong<3