My two shortest fingers can wrap around my wrist like its nothing.

When I look at my stomach, it is pale and flat.

These legs do not store fat around the knees

I take up very little space.

My stomach used to be soft and bouncy. Chubby. Healthy.

My thighs would stick together like putty to pictures.

You could lay your head on them as if they were pillows.

My calves were my pride. Strong and defined. Bulky.

I was not always able to take up so little space.

But sometimes, when there is no motivation to eat, you lose a lot of weight.

“Skinny little thing!” my grandmother praised.

“How did you lose so much weight?”

“You look better this way.”

People started using different vocabulary to describe me. I went from “bigger” to “perfect.”

I understand where it comes from.

It is easier like this. I do not bump into desks as often. I fit in most clothes.

I never have to worry about others questioning my health.

But, when my thighs stuck to me like chewed gum, and my stomach could be seen behind my shirt,

When I could not wrap my fingers around my wrist, I was healthy. I was happy.

I had motivation to eat. I could run without losing my vision.

I never denied my stomach, as I do now, when food doesn’t sound appealing. I had never before felt a headache because my lack of nutrients was eating into me.

I could eat more than one meal a day, and I did so with gusto.

Before I was this tiny, I was me. What I am now is sick.

“The common cold of mental illness,” or to some, “the diet I could never manage.”

It sounds like an excuse. Maybe an eating disorder in disguise.

I do not recognize myself.



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