...since I've had an issue with eating. But consistent thoughts of how much I weigh or how I should look or the politically correct BMI are a roiling boil that consumes the background of my mind most times (especially when I'm anticipating a meal).
I guess an eating problem (or would it be more properly deemed a dieting problem) never really goes away.
Once upon a time I was a grown woman who weighed 88 pounds. I never want to be that woman again...
Today I love my body for what it does for me. For the way it serves me, a vessel of sorts to experience the world. I try to feed it properly, to moderately exercise for the proper health of my heart and lungs. I have learned to appreciate myself. To take care of myself. To accept myself not upon the perception of a highly-flawed media, but for who I am as a unique human being. Self love is a many-gratifying thing.
In lieu of the older me (and hopes things never get that dire again), I've resurrected this lovely poem. I guess a sort of remembrance to the way things have changed. Truly, for inside an eating disorder sits a sad place.
(written by Eavan Boland)
Flesh is heretic. My body is a witch. I am burning it. Yes I am torching her curves and paps and wiles. They scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head in the half-truths of her fevers till I renounced milk and honey and the taste of lunch. I vomited her hungers. Now the bitch is burning. I am starved and curveless. I am skin and bone. She has learned her lesson. Thin as a rib I turn in sleep. My dreams probe a claustrophobia a sensuous enclosure. How warm it was and wide once by a warm drum, once by the song of his breath and in his sleeping side. Only a little more, only a few more days sinless, foodless, I will slip back into him again as if I had never been away. Caged so I will grow angular and holy past pain, keeping his heart such company as will make me forget in a small space the fall into forked dark, into python needs heaving to hips and breasts and lips and heat and sweat and fat and greed.