When I celebrated,
For the third year in a row,
That I had not shoved my fingers down my throat
For one thousand and ninety five days
I was told that theĀ whirlwindĀ of insanity was over
And that, āHey, congratulations!
But are you really going to celebrate
Every single year? Ā Itās been long enough.ā
I wanted to look them in the eye, and say
āFuck you.ā
I wanted to tell them
That last week, I broke down in a dress shop
Because my legs felt like they could stand thicker than branches
And they were not the twigs that I āusedā to want.
That three months ago,
I was going through my old things,
And found the drawings I used to make
Of my view when I was kneeling over the toilet,
When looking at the porcelain seat was like looking
Into the eyes of somebody that wanted me
For once. Forever.
And I found these drawings,
And I went back to the bathroom
Sitting down in front of the toilet seat
For the first time
Since the day that I last purged.
I cried when I remembered how many times
I spent kneeling
To the point of bruises on my knees
And bite marks on my knuckles
Like I had come from a fist-fight with this monster
That nobody would believe could fight me back,
But did it ever.
And I remembered how the last time I was here
Was two years, eleven months, and twenty nine days before
This three year anniversary
When I cried my eyes out, and choked on my own words
Instead of my own vomit, for the first time.
I decided that I would be strong.
I cried again, because for three years, I had been
A force to reckon with,
Stomping on anyone who decided to tell me
That I was not worthy.
But while I was being stronger,
And I recognized my power
As a human being, as a soul with a body,
A body that I was supposed to cherish,
And treat like a temple;
I still went home and cried
After I let a boy touch my body
For the first time
Because I was afraid that my bones were not felt
When he ran his hands down my sides.
Because his hands did not slip around my entire waist
Like I used to fantasize about.
He could not hold my thighs wrapped around his hips
Because I did not weigh zero pounds,
Like I thought that I should.
I cried because I have let this temple of mine,
The one that I should now be taking care of,
Turn into a wreck of a yo-yo, going up,
To the eight baskets of thai chicken bites,
And a number on the scale that my mother was proud of,
To the lows, of passing out on the floor of a gym changing room
Because I burned off three times more calories
Than I had eaten that day.
When people tell me
That itās been so long
That I must be fine by now,
I want to tell them that I still wake up
And by instinct, run my hands down myĀ rib-cage,
Like I used to when they were caging a bird inside,
That I wanted to rip out.
I want them to know how, last week, I had to use scissors
For a project in French class,
And I held them in my hand, cutting out a drawing,
But what I wanted to do,
Was cut off the fat on my thighs.
IĀ remembered, then,
How once, I would have cut those blades into my legs
Wishing that every extra ounce of skin
On my body
Would cut off, and disappear.
I want to scream
That just because I have become a woman,
That I have become fearless,
And am no longer afraid to tell people
That I AM beautiful;
I still stay up at night and cry,
Because I remember
The time that I wanted to die.
And itās been so long, but I still scream
When IĀ realizeĀ how fragile recovery can be
And how if I donāt keep control
Of this body that I am inside of,
I may fall down the rabbit hole once again,
And I do not want to be Alice.
I want to be one hundred years old
And remembering, on my way to heaven,
That I used to want to die
When I could not enter a two-digit weight
And I want to be able to hold my spouse in my hands
And tell them that I made it
And that I allowed my body to grow
And breathe
And that IĀ didnātĀ just make it three years
But I made it to one hundred of them.
And I want to say,
To those nights that I feared I would relapse;
Fuck them.
IĀ didnāt.
And if, when I am crippling from age,
I can say that I have accomplished this,
Then, and only then, have I made it.
And only then, will I agree to not celebrate.
Because celebrating the beginning of my recovery
Is like celebrating the day I was born,
Because that was the day I decided to not only exist,
But to live.
