An llness that doesn’t care for age, height, gender or (rather ironically) weight.
My ED carries a smile. A smile that whispers to the world ‘I’m fine’. A smile that begs for someone to ask ‘what’s wrong?’ but knows that if anyone does, it’ll crack.
My ED walks with a head held high. One that’s determined not to fall. Held tall all day throughout the storm, pushing to make it through. But the storm just grows. Cruel voices that start out small but grow so loud.
My ED stands on shaky ground. Legs struggle with the weight. They walk with pride but before the mirror the ground always quakes.
My ED has hands that grip the sides of the bathroom sink or lean on the kitchen table. Everything tense, trying to pull me high.
My ED has eyes that are tired of the tears that fall regardless of their source. Eyes so blurry once again, yet again, salty stings running down each cheek.
My ED hasn’t managed to make me purge for four weeks and it’s barely skipped a meal. My ED has only gotten the scales out once but the war rages ever on. The voice tells me it’s because I’m surrounded by people, that I would never have done this on my own. The longing for the scales is only stopped due to a fear of the number being ‘too high’. My ED still hates the mirror and the hands still grip the sink. The legs still struggle to reach the fridge and the tears forever fall.
But my ED isn’t necessarily me. It’s a huge part and that I will never deny but it isn’t me as a whole. 4 weeks and I’ve made it through, kinda, almost, but still, 4 weeks, that much is true. I’ve not been alone but that doesn’t necessarily mean ‘I’m weak’.
They see me eat and so they don’t think to ask because my ED carries a smile, the one that says that ‘I’m alright’.
The cruelest trick of all, because inside, I’m most definitely not alright.