[Trigger Warning : Eating Disorders ]
As I look myself in the mirror, I see my cheeks, my neck, my stomach and I think maybe I should skip lunch today: I’ve been in recovery for years now, I wonder how I got here.
I changed my clothes thrice today. I initially opted for leggings, but then I saw how big my butt looked in them, how unpleasant, how unhidden, and remembered a man’s unsettling gaze at me the last time I had them on. I felt uncomfortable, unsafe, exposed and yet again I ignored it. I switched to one of my favorite pair of jeans, it was a size 28. I wore it and hated it.
I hated how it had betrayed me. It no longer followed my body’s movements with ease, instead it constrained me. Reminding me of how I wasn’t good enough to be a 28, slyly mocking me for trying to fit in a clique I never belonged in, as it exposed my butt when I tied my shoelaces. I pushed it up. I took a glimpse at the mirror; I pushed it up. I walked around my room looking for my keys, yet again I pushed it up.
Frustrated I undid the buttons and surrendered the battle, “28 doesn’t fit me”, I considered as I pulled down the jeans in shame. Digging for a looser fit, I thought maybe I should starve myself.
—
.
