DECEMBER 4, 2015 ~ GOPILEV
Source : (https://offmybench.wordpress.com/2015/12/04/28-honest-thoughts-on-bodies-from-someone-in-recovery-from-an-eating-disorder/)
I hate the way we congratulate each other on weight lost. I hate the way we validate each other’s efforts to shrink smaller.
I’m 20 years old and this is the first time in my life weight-loss hasn’t been anywhere to be found on my priority list. After a lifetime of it being number one, I still find myself unsettled with all the free space in my head.
Restricting entire fucking food groups is not a sustainable way to live.
Salad is good for me. Pastries are also good for me. Both in different ways. Both are equally important.
I am so regretful of all the times I cut my own opportunities for enjoyment short because of shame about what I looked like.
Liberation is getting rid of all the clothes I had saved for when I’d be skinny (tags still on).
Discipline can be deadly.
I’m sick of debates around whether or not people with fat can be sexy or take nude photographs. There is so much more to my life than being a ‘before’ picture or a fucking punch line.
I will dance until I can’t breathe and sweat falls into my eyes. I will watch Netflix for hours covered in cookie crumbs. Most importantly, I will live each day without justifying shit to anybody.
How did self-love become a political statement? How have I ended up a rebel just for discarding the pursuit of thinness?
My body is not currency for acceptance. My body is not currency for acceptance. My body is not currency for acceptance.
I’m tired of always being on guard for conversations about dieting. I’m tired of changing the subject.
Fuck all diets straight to hell, actually.
I wear shorts now. It’s been over 2 years since I’ve done that.
I will never understand why people feel the need to ask me what eating disorder I went to treatment for. Do you need to picture my exact methods of self-destruction? Will it make my pain more believable? Spin the wheel and see if we come up with starvation, binging, purging. Why don’t I get asked about how I built recovery?
If I see one more tan, blonde model promoting weight-loss tea on Instagram I am going to lose my fucking mind.
I hereby refuse to bond with friends over a mutual hatred of our bodies.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t give a shit about loving the skin I’m in. It’s just skin, fickle and malleable. My love does not scar as easily as my skin does. I will put my love into my own strength. Into my drive to care for myself inside out. Into my soft heart and sharp brain.
My eating disorder was essentially punishing myself for punishing myself because I punished myself for punishing myself.
Makeup can be fucking empowering. I sharpen my eyeliner when I want people to look at my eyes when I speak and redden my lips to set my speech on fire. Listen and burn.
Fuck, I nearly died because I was too afraid of taking up space in the world. Years of my life were spent with the conviction that shrinking inwards was the only way I deserved to walk through life.
It is still too easy to slip into the version of myself that talks shit about her thighs and measures her worth in second-takes.
Sometimes I still need to roll down the windows while I’m on the highway to let the salty air rush in and remind me I am made of something much greater than doubt.
I’m more and more grateful I can’t find myself in magazines. I will find myself in the oceans, in the slopes of mountains, in thunderstorms.
I would really like to stop being told I’m brave for loving myself despite my ‘’imperfections’’. I’m tired of fighting off assumptions that your version of perfection is something I’m reaching for in the first place. Whatever aspects of myself that don’t make the cut don’t get tossed into a pity pile that I automatically struggle with.
If beauty standards are too narrow to contain the glory in my hips, I will never again try and squeeze myself into them. I will proudly stretch these barriers until they snap, no longer a constraint on my body or mind. I will run in a world where stretch marks deserve pride, cellulite confetti dots my thighs, proof that I am warm and growing and alive.
I will never again apologize for this body.
Dear sales assistant, yes, I want this in a bigger size.