There are some days where I find myself accidentally counting up my calorie intake in my head. ‘Some days’, I reassure myself, is an improvement. Some days I look in the mirror and think ‘I am beautiful as I am’, and there are some days when I believe it. I am better than I was.
It takes two weeks to form a habit. I tell myself that I have three years of habitual starving, over-exercising, bingeing, purging, and crying at my reflection to undo. It takes time, I tell myself, and I am better than I was.
There are some days when I can’t help but examine every inch of my body in the mirror, pulling at what I still consider ‘excess fat’. Some days I am embarrassed to eat in public where people can see me, even though I can acknowledge now that it’s completely irrational. Now, I find comfort in getting drunk; being drunk means I don’t care as much, being drunk means freedom to eat. Still, I am better than I was.
It doesn’t make sense but, I remind myself, at least it’s only some days that I hate myself, and at least it’s only some days I wish I could sew my lips shut and shrink and shrink and shrink until I disappear. It’s only some days, and I am better than I was.
Every day I wake up and tell myself, ‘I am better’. I tell myself, ‘you are not too much, go and eat breakfast’. One day, I think, I won’t care at all about hip bones or how much space I take up, and I won’t give a single thought to calories or grams of fat, and I’ll never even consider for a second the question of whether I should make myself vomit up a meal. One day, I’ll really be better.
I’m holding on to the idea that one day, there will be no more ‘some days’. One day, I’ll wake up and realise that I am finally free.