Sometimes I can convince myself that I miss my eating disorder, and I can make myself believe that everyone else does too. And the best thing for me to do, for all of us, is to relapse right now.
They miss how perfect I was. How beautiful I was.
They must miss me right? I miss me. I think. What would they say? What would they miss?
My shrinking body and small voice? My quiet and non confrontational personality?
How scary I acted?
I think if I could guess, I’d guess they miss my lying and manipulating.
They miss the way I slowly became a shell of the person they knew all for some peace of mind I never got.
They miss how I would lie and say I ate at work and I wasn’t hungry then black out and see stars when I stood up from the couch.
They miss watching me do a couple hundred jumping jacks in hopes of burning off the apple I ate. How we would all laugh at how crazy I was being, but knowing I wouldn’t stop.
They miss the hour long showers I would take after enjoying ice cream with them, thinking I was feeling better today. Cue the booming music that still couldn’t hide what I was doing in there.
They miss me going from laughing to crying to screaming over anything and everything. Hunger means mood swings.
They miss nervously laughing when people poked fun at me only eating twigs and berries. Watching me move my spinach leaf around my plate.
They miss getting “can you pick me up” texts after I ran from P-burg to Belvidere with no plan or rhyme or reason. They miss asking me if I want to eat after such a long run and me opting for a cigarette and redbull instead. They miss looking worried.
They miss me lying and saying this time is different and I’m okay only for me to continue to spiral downhill for months before asking for help.
They miss me eating heads of kale and kale only and trying to convince them that it is delicious. They miss baking vegan cakes with me and then me refusing to eat them.
They miss me trying to sneak into any family members bathroom where there is a scale and then taking 10 minutes to weigh myself multiple times just to make sure. They miss me having breakdowns about the .02 in water weight I gained.
They miss me wearing my polar fitness band and watch, counting every calorie in and out and watching my heart rate in fear.
They miss my unsolicited diet advice and why being vegan is so healthy. They miss me arguing that vegan is healthy even if I only eat lettuce and bananas.
They miss the dull circles under my eyes and gray color of my skin and my fake smiles and falling out hair.
They miss my sweatshirts in the summer to cover up my “stomach fat” and self harm scars that I pretended were old.
They miss my thigh gap and the measuring tape I had in my purse.
They miss seeing me in my wheelchair.
They miss visiting me in hospitals and treatment centers.
I’m sure they miss it all as much as I do.
Because who doesn’t miss all of that glory?
Why wouldn’t my mom miss sitting in a hospital bed watching me cry over milk and watching my heart rate, praying it’ll stay at 40 bpm?
Why wouldn’t my boyfriend miss the feeling of my rib cage against his body or me crying over dinner?
And why wouldn’t my friends miss me making up an excuse as to why I can’t go to someone’s birthday brunch so I can exercise instead?
And why wouldn’t I miss my eating disorder and the feeling of going to sleep feeling pangs in my chest, hoping I might die in my sleep?
Why wouldn’t my friends and family and loved ones miss that girl and her collar bones and petite frame? She was invincible. She was never in pain. She had no feelings. What is there not to miss about that?
What is there to miss about all of that?