I made it past the 4-month mark. Anorexia hates me but I’m totally (I mean, mostly, most days) fine with filing for divorce from her.
Honestly, I don’t need her anymore.
I don’t need her abuse or her comfort.
Instead, I need to keep letting tears come for little-me. Without Anorexia hanging around, little-me gets to be loved, by me, because I have enough capacity to do that. And I have enough capacity to bring all parts of myself to therapy to get through, walk through, hug through, hold through every raw emotion and every fucked up piece of my story.
This divorce is final— I don’t ever want to feel that desperate place the depths of my eating disorder brought me to. I want to feel life instead, even the saddest, most grief-stricken moments. Because inside of those incredibly hard emotions is love.
I think that’s the whole point—love.