I read something recently that I should  not have. In essence, the words went something like this:

She’ll kill me if she ever found out I told you, but she struggled with an eating disorder.

My heart started beating faster and faster. I could feel my temperature rising; my face blushing. But I was not mad.

I came to a stark realization: I still suffer from an eating disorder.

I cannot talk about it to anyone, even my husband, because I am afraid that if I do, I will no longer be able to hide things in the future, if I need to. I am always waiting for something to trigger me, so I can cop-out and blame it on the latest crisis. In secret. I don’t want people to know I ever had an eating disorder because I don’t want them to be alarmed if I randomly decide I am not going to eat lunch today.

I have unresolved issues. I have no idea what they are, exactly. But they are unresolved. Who could understand that? Who could understand that even though I don’t show a single symptom of having an eating disorder right now, I have moments of inconsolable torment, in my head. I’m not sure what stops me from taking action (most of the time), but maybe if someone asked me once in a while, hey, how are you doing with your eating disorder? I could figure out a way to tell them.

Because I have never owned it like that before, ever. Even the people that know I have struggled in the past have no idea how badly. Nobody has asked. And I won’t ever tell them if they don’t pry a little bit, because I am embarrassed, and I am forever holding on to it like it’s going to come back one day. One day I’ll be skinny again.

Here is the deal. I want to talk about it, deep down. I need to talk about it, I think, to be healthy. I suppose that if I talk about it, I am reminding myself why I am not in that place, why I am healthy, and strong without an eating disorder. I just don’t really know how to go about talking about it.