Please, read it

Okay, today I wrote a text, I am officially weight restored but i struggled against eating disorders for some years. I wrote a text about it and I don't if it might be helpful for some of you, it is really long, i am totally aware of it but if you have time, please read it. 

At first, I thought about doing a text that would talk about what anorexia is like and then, I changed my mind because how I perceive this illness is not the same as everyone. I lived it and for me, it probable was different from her or him.  Then, I thought about writing in French, and after in English and looks like it won because words were more easily wrote. After all that, I thought about not writing anything at all. Why? Because I was ashamed and then, I realized that there was nothing to be ashamed of. I got sick, I fell down and I pushed my way through happy times and extremely hard times. And you know, it was hard as hell. I don’t remember how many times I cried, how many times I wished I could be someone else, out of all these worries. Deep inside, nothing was okay; I was sad, desperate to find a glimpse of normality in my life. Everywhere I looked reminded me of who I had become. Everywhere I heard all these comments made about my weight, about how sick I looked, about how I should start eating. Every time, I remember telling them that I knew and that I would try. Countless promises broken, so many tears I shed because I wanted to succeed but at the same time, I didn’t. I was fine with being where I was while being sick of it. Looking in the mirror was torture so everywhere there was some; I deflected my eyes or tried by any means possible to hide it because I couldn’t stand who I was. This body of mine, I hated it more than anything, I couldn’t see who I was, in these eyes, there weren’t any part of me left. I wasn’t living, I was surviving and it sounds cliché I know but when you live only to burn calories and count the ones you ate, you’re not living. I wasn’t going out anymore, I didn’t want to see people, I smiled but these smiles were insincere, behind them, I was breaking down. I fell apart so many times, after every “I’ll get better, I’ll win this fight”, some pieces of my mind were scattered. Because even though I did wish to get better, I didn’t have any idea how. I was scared, I hated this tiny body of mine but I hated the fact of not knowing who I would become even more so I just stood there promising things I would never do. And even more than not doing anything and letting the fear take the better part of me, I hated all the suffering. Not mine because even if I did pass so many nights without sleep, even though I spent nights awake because of the pain, of the fear of dying, because I felt all alone in this big world it didn’t bother me as much as the tears I made the people I hold dear shed. So many times they cried, so many times they tried to break the illusion in which I lived, the dream where I firmly believed I was fat. They yelled after me, they took away sports and watched me closely and I hated it. I wasn’t free, I was being watched, I felt like I didn’t have any control over my life and I only felt angriness around them. I was always in a bad mood, talking with me was almost impossible and I couldn’t only run away from my reality with writing and music. I could stay there writing hours and hours because I needed to express my feelings, the ones I was never strong enough to say out loud. In these papers, I wrote a million “Help me”, in these papers, I took the pen to ask the universe if I would ever be better but in the end, I never got an answer because the world can’t talk if you don’t move forward. Time flew and when the day came and I went to the hospital for the first time, I saw how much my family loved me. Every time they could come, they would, it was hours and hours speaking to them on the phone and on my side, I tried. I ate and took weight and honestly, when I got discharged, I thought I could do it on my own. I really did but they knew I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough yet. But, they let me fall because they knew I needed to hit my own wall, they couldn’t tell me what to do because I wouldn’t have listened to them, they knew it, I only listened to myself. So, things got worse, way worse than before. Deep inside, I wasn’t any better. My life was all about numbers and trying to find ways to not eat, it was lies after lies, tears after tears. Panic every day, and birthdays and Christmas were my worst nightmares. Me, who always loved Christmas, didn’t want him to happen: too much food, too many calories.  I didn’t see Christmas magic, all I saw was worthless time spending eating. It didn’t take long before I went back to the hospital. I was so afraid because I disappointed every one that believed in me and I remember my sister asking me on the phone “Why? Why did you let us down? If it wasn’t going well, why didn’t you say anything?” That day I answered “I don’t know” because I didn’t want to tell her the actual reason. Fact is, I just couldn’t say anything, I was so ashamed of being weak, and I was so ashamed of losing against anorexia. I was so scared of telling her I couldn’t handle being at home anymore, my home was the last place I wanted to be, I was scared of going back because I hated how I felt in there. I hated having all of my movements watched. I hated being in my own house because I felt like I wasn’t welcomed there anymore, I felt like a burden. I know I wasn’t but at that time, I needed to be by myself because I couldn’t fight against my own mind and against my dad. I just couldn’t so I gave up the one fight I couldn’t win yet for the one I had to give everything I had.  Honestly, I wished I could write that after that, everything went for the best but truth is: it didn’t. I ate, took some weight, got discharged and stayed at that point for months and months, I lost some, and I took some back. I wasn’t getting any better physically neither was I getting worse but I wasn’t getting better. The thought still crept in and I cried. Birthdays were horrible, cakes, pizzas, all these things I used to love, I hated them, I would think about dying before eating them because every time I ate some, I felt like dying. I felt fat, ugly and like I lost something. Everything I thought was true was actually false and I needed to re-learn about loving myself, about loving life. I needed to let go of this ideal I put up for myself and it was hard but, hey, I wasn’t alone. I don’t remember how many times my mom took me to Tim Hortons for me to eat something out of the ordinary. I don’t remember how many times my sister took me out for breakfast and lunch. So many days spent shopping and having fun. I don’t remember how many times my family had to make sacrifices so I could at least eat a little something. When my mom cooked fries, she would always cook rice for me because I couldn’t handle fries. Every breakfast or lunch, my dad tried to push a little more food on my plate. I yelled at him so many times, he yelled at me so many times, he said so many things he shouldn’t have and told me many times he gave up on my while tears were appearing in his eyes. He said those mean things but in the end, never gave up. My mom never stopped praying for me, I lost her trust more than once but she continued loving me.  All along, I had family with me, brothers would promised they would go out running with me again once I could, sisters to talk with and parents to love me. Nowadays, I can say it; I was a damn lucky girl and still am. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have started to get better. Slowly, I started eating and then, there was this one person who every day came to ask me how I was, if everything was okay. When I struggled, she listened and advised me. When I was wrong, she told me. With everyone else, they are the reason why I could get back on my feet, the reason why I didn’t give up. It was a hell of a fight because I was fighting no one other than me, my mind was constantly arguing with my messed up logic and just putting some butter on my toast was a struggle.  Sounds pathetic right? But it wasn’t, no fear must be called pathetic, none! Because it was a fear, it isn’t anymore but once, it was and I’m not scared neither do I feel lame about it. It’s a fight I put up against myself and damn, looking at the mirror was tough. Sometimes, tears were falling down my face because I had taken 200g. TWO HUNDRED F****** GRAMS! And I was breaking down, telling myself how worthless I was. And then, I went out of the bathroom, went to school and smiled because at that time, I thought it was shameful to have an eating disorder so I stayed silent even though I wanted to talk about it. Sometimes, I was in class and I just wanted to cry, I was there trying to be like everyone else but I only dreamt of running in the bathroom so I could cry. But I never did. I couldn’t bring myself to be in a vulnerable state, I was scared of them judging me. They all saw how I looked but never said anything; I didn’t want them to know. Sometimes, I was waking at six in the morning and I only wished I didn’t have to go to my classes. I didn’t have any strength left, I felt so lonely in this crowd, and I just wanted to stay in bed doing nothing except listening to music while writing. But in the end, I always got up and did the same things as always. Step by step, I was regaining my weight, food that was scary before, wasn’t so much anymore. Things got better for sure, I’m not saying otherwise, what I’m saying is, I didn’t stay there waiting for it to happen. I ate. Even though I hated it, I ate and took one pound, then two, then three and in the end, I took thirty pounds. For every gram taken, I cried, I despised putting on weight, people told me I was getting prettier but I didn’t care. What they saw, I couldn’t see. But I did it anyways because I couldn’t handle this selfishness of mine, this fear controlling my life, I just couldn’t. I clearly saw what happened if I gave up fighting in the middle of the way, I wanted to see what would have happened if I didn’t. It took time, three years of battling, three years of breaking down walls I built myself. And I can say that I’m proud. I’m proud of me, I’m proud of the way I went through. It wasn’t an easy road but I walked it, I survived and started living. Don’t get me wrong, it is still not easy. Sometimes, the self-hatred is gigantic but I swallow up my pain and these feelings and move forward because feelings are feelings, they don’t make your life.  I need to move because even if today is not a good day, tomorrow might be better. Sometimes, I still look in the mirror and point out all my imperfections but in the end, that body is mine and will always be, hating him won’t do me any better, I know that now. So, I get my sh*t together and I live. I try to see myself for who I really am not for what my wicked up logic tells me. Food is still a struggle but, hey, at least I eat. I can do what I like; I can jog again, go out for big walks and appreciate a big slice of cake when birthdays come.  Fear isn’t manipulating me anymore. Truth is, even if battling against an eating disorder is almost unmanageable: THINGS GET BETTER! It takes time and sometimes, we lose our patience but I struggled and I cried, I gave up many times but in the end, I reached at point where my health is not in danger anymore and I’m fine with it.  I’m okay with whom I am today, I may not love myself but I get better every day and every day is not so sad anymore. So, an eating disorder isn’t untreatable, you can recover from it, you just need to say it. You need to say it, it’s hard and you may feel weak but by yourself, you won’t go anywhere because that road, you are the only one who can walk but with no one to hold your hands while you walk, you’ll have no one to get you up when you’ll fall. So, I don’t know who you are, I don’t know you’re story, I don’t give a damn whether you are a guy or a girl and if you’re 15, 16,10 or 9 years old, I just want you to know, you can get better. So, tell someone if you need help, if you’re sad or if you see how much you struggle around food. It doesn’t matter if you’re overweight or normal sized, an eating disorder isn’t defined by weight.  Just say it before it is too late. There is nothing to be ashamed of, NOTHING. Life is life and like my favorite saying goes “Sh*t happens” so gets it together and move forward. Life has so much more to offer than your disorder. 

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