Explaining your mental illness to others is a tough balancing act. You want them to believe you, but you also don’t want them to start treating you as subhuman because of it.
I wish it didn’t have to be like that.
See: the pressure to prove you’re disabled, but not too disabled.
So, if you know someone who’s suffering from an eating disorder please restrain from bringing up topics like what diet your mom’s trying, how much you run, body image, what you eat or should eat, how you haven’t been hungry these last few days. Because what you’re doing is increasing the already life consuming, constant urges. Even if you aren’t asking if your friend wants to go for a run or even if the sufferer is the one bringing up these topics, you’re supporting the eating disordered thoughts, it’s triggering. Because we want to get our fix so badly and any excuse to get it, any tiny suggestion that getting high is fine, makes the fight ten times harder. It may be okay for you, but we’ve grown out of control and although I think society has as well, us suffering from an eating disorder needs the exact opposite of what society is yelling and pushing down everyone’s throat.
i’m not a fucking skeleton anymore
i’m a girl with a smile and hair that shines and skin that glows and eyes that sparkle and heart that beats and bones that hold me together
i’m fucking brave and i’m a fucking warrior, I fucking fight and I will keep fighting until I’ve won, i’m not a fucking skeleton anymore, I’m more alive than I have ever been
Irrelevant cause I gained my life back.
I know it hurts. I know it doesn’t feel good.
I know your hunger is different than mine.
I know it doesn’t taste the same as mine.
imagine you could grow up all over again
and pinpoint the millisecond that you started
counting calories like casualties of war,
mourning each one like it had a family.
sometimes I wonder that.
sometimes I wonder if you would go back
and watch yourself reappear and disappear right in front of your own eyes.
and I love you so much.
I am going to hold your little hand through the night.
just please eat. just a little.
you wrote a poem once,
about a city of walking skeletons.
the teacher called home because you
told her you wished it could be like that
let me tell you something about bones, baby.
they are not warm or soft.
the wind whistles through them like they are
holes in a tree.
and they break, too. they break right in half.
they bruise and splinter like wood.
are you hungry?
I know. I know how much you hate that question.
I will find another way to ask it, someday.
I know they are all yelling at you to stretch yourself thinner.
l hear them counting, always counting.
I wish I had been there when the world made you
snap yourself in half.
I would have told you that your body is not a war-zone,
it is okay leave your plate empty.
Really needed to post this right now. This is the only thing that ever helps me get even a little bit into wise mind about how I look. (via foreveralotus)
I love this so much!
You look healthy.
And by that I don’t mean you look fat.
I mean your face isn’t grey any more, the circles under your eyes aren’t so dark. Your lips aren’t cracked and dry and your hair isn’t thinning and brittle. I mean you seem more focused when I talk to you, You actually look at me and listen rather than being so unable to stay still or think about anything other than your illness that your eyes dart around the room and you nod manically the whole time I’m speaking. You seem calmer, stiller, quieter. You’re easier to have a joke with and you take things on board much more than you used to.
I mean you laugh now, you’re less serious. There’s life about you, it’s in your eyes and your smile, it’s in the way you speak and even in the way you go about your daily tasks.
You look healthy. You look happy. It really, really suits you.