I hear you disease.
Scanning last nights radiance with scrutinizing eyes, laser focused on the underwear line from the underwear I never wear. The “chest fat”. The lack of definition in my traps. The flatness of my hair.
I hear you disease.
Not wanting to swipe and not wanting to start a conversation. Then wondering why nobody’s knocking on my door. Wondering when they might. Wondering why I even care.
.6 less yesterday. .6 more today. Feeling it. Then not caring by being SO STRONG at the gym and crushing my workout. But my jeans feeling snug – the same snug they have because I’ve filled out my bottom. Isn’t that the point?
No. You want me to shrink. You want me to fade. You want me to be silent. Dead silent.
Dead. You hate when I thrive. You hate when I don’t need you. You hate when I can move on and keep my chin up and keep going. You hate when I’m ok where I am – wherever that is, however that looks, whatever it feels like. You hate when I don’t need you.
This morning I was reminded of what it used to be like. How I couldn’t be home because home meant binging. How I couldn’t be still because still meant irresistible, undeniable, insatiable hunger. How I couldn’t handle the truth – about me, about you, about anything.
The truth is. That’s all there is. How did I not die? How have I survived? How have I come to a place of not only coveting home, but also relishing stillness? Pause? Grey? Joy?
I forget I don’t have to honor these thoughts that come and tell me NOT to honor myself at all. I forget that what I think is not often true, if ever. I forget that it’s my native mind and my disease and that voice that just doesn’t want me to be well, full, whole.
I forget.
Do you?