It took me an entire year to overcome a real relapse. One that only lasted for about a month, but it took a baker’s dozen to move forward. To truly move forward. I spent almost a year trying to return to that one month. I tasted the way weight loss felt, I fit into clothes I hadn’t touched in years, I felt a sense of body confidence despite a frightening lack of visible confidence. And I wanted it back. It’s a scary place to be, since it really would have taken just one comment to send me over the edge of the line I toed for too long.
I used to own a pair of perfect glass ballerina slippers, given to me on my 6th birthday by a friend in my ballet class. They hung on my wall for most of my childhood. The ribbon on the left shoe fell off soon after I received them. I could have easily glued it back on, but I never did. Sometimes things are beautiful even when something isn’t quite right.
A part of me is messy, unscheduled, carefree, and spontaneous. This piece of me is buried six feet under when the eating disorder part of me is too loud. I become rigid and ridiculously obsessed with everything. Everything has to be perfect and when it’s not, it’s not OK, and since it is practically impossible for even one thing to be perfect, all of my personality traits that I perceive to cause imperfection die. Goodbye laziness, along with happiness. Perfect people are never happy until they’re perfect. It is such a miserable way to live.
Right now, I don’t care that my hair is messy and I don’t want to know what I weigh. I have no idea. I haven’t known since I unfortunately had to find out at the doctor’s in March. Sure, I am insanely curious. But what will stepping on the scale do for me? Nothing. It will not confirm anything about who I am. It means nothing.
Right now, I am the ballet slippers with the missing bow. And I am okay with that.