"Nothing Tastes As Good As Skinny Feels."

"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."

First of all, that's a load of bullshit. And second there are so many things in this world worth your time more than 'being skinny'. There's the feeling of a full, warm stomach after eating until you are satisfied. There's not being cold all of the time. There's having the energy to play sports, do fun activities, or just walk up the damn stairs. There's not being distracted when you're talking with your friends; or eating your favorite foods with loved ones instead of sitting awkwardly while you try not to think about your stomach rumbling. Enjoy every second you have of this short life. There is so much life to live. I know you are wondering what life but it's there. Choose recovery, choose to live. I swear you will never regret it. If you are full for even one hour, if you are happy for just one moment, it's worth it. If I could hug every one of you I would.

(I'm tagging this under 'thinspo' so that all of the girls that are reading and being brainwashed by these disgusting, an0rexia promoting posts find this and with it some comfort.)

the things i would do to have a pretty nose

another soft reminder: it's okay to eat more than others in ed recovery - or even in general!! your body needs the energy - and even if that werent the case, you deserve yummy food regardless ♡

On the subject of guilty pleasures, I’ve long had a soft spot for the kind of guy who might be descried as the direct inverse of a Himbo–funny-looking, weak little skin-and-bones, genius-level intellect, and honestly kind of an asshole. But, and this is important, his assholishness has to come from a place of impotent frustration, 50% justified at how his awkwardness has led to isolation and cut off opportunities, 50% ranting about how every petty slight is caused by people Not Recognizing His Genius. These are your Edward Nygmas, your Jonathan Cranes, sneering out at a world that (to hear them tell it) has only ever laughed at them, bitter as the coffee they need four cups of just to get through they day, with a thread of sadness and loneliness that all their snark and egotism can never quite kill weaving secretly through their hearts.  

I’m not sure I have a point to make with this post. If I do, maybe it’s that I can never in good conscience make fun of any girl who swoons at a tough-talking greaser, when my idle romantic daydreams are so very much worse.

Paper Cranes

TW: homophobia, bullying, church abuse, swearing, assault, ED, SH, compulsive exercising, Republicans, purity culture, evangelical crap, but most of all middle school. If I’ve failed to include anything, just let me know. Fr I wrote it for me and posted it for those who might find my experience affirming. I’m all good if you need to scroll right on past a trauma post.

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The first time I ever watched homophobic bullying was in my pastor’s office. All the teens were waiting around a table for our youth pastor. There was one gay boy, a close friend of mine in a relatively small group. From the first week his family joined our church, an older girl in youth group announced to the rest of us that she couldn’t stand him because “he’s too happy and sings too much.” It was true. The new boy was the most cheerful, outgoing person I’d ever met. And he loves to sing.

The same girl gave a similar PSA behind my back when I was new. “We shouldn’t play with her because she’s weird and wears dress up clothes.” I was six. And it was true, I did wear a princess costume every day. Eventually I traded in my tutus for some looks that better reflected internalized misogyny and everyone figured out I’m funny as all shit and can get along with most anyone. I graduated from the bottom of the food chain.

So I shrugged off her hot take on my new friend. I don’t think she liked that her plans to cancel the new guy flopped. Because as we were waiting around that table she jumped up and grabbed his earlobe between her finger nails. She was super proud of her nails. They were long and scraggly like a cat and she was into filing them in public in case anyone felt too safe.

She dug her nails in on either side and no one said anything. You don’t stand up for a boy to a girl. I can’t remember if he tried to swat her off or just took it. It was only a minute but it was a damn long one. Blood started to bead around her nails. Then the door opened and she sat back down. Sunday school started.

Nothing I believed, no books, no paper, no concept of abomination could override what I’d just seen, the revulsion deep in my gut. It was more than rage. More than disgust. I still have no word for it. I was too young and the feelings that well up are still those of a thirteen year old.

It doesn’t matter what you call it. Anger like that is like walking around dead and suddenly finding your pulse because it’s roaring in your ears like a jackhammer.

I prayed to be like everyone else. To care about the same social issues in the same way. The only way I could make sense of my loneliness was that I was cursed in some way. If God loved me, he would make me content with the same values as my peers. But I had just seen someone harm someone else and not a single one of these fine, upstanding kids I’m supposed to make friends with say a damn thing.

A few years later, there was some kinda touchy-feeling Jesus shindig where everyone got real sugared up at night and had a big sing along with some college kids who were supposedly qualified to talk about the deep shit with us. If I mentioned their university you’d recognize it. Hint: assault cover ups

One guy, nineteen or so, must have gotten particularly inspired in the spirit because he starts preaching off-the-cuff about the sins of anorexia, binging, purging, and cutting. I inched backward. I tried hiding behind a football player; I was about half his width after all.

Peggy, what’s up with the bandaids?

I guess I tripped over a wall.

Hey I have a joke. How many Peggies can you fit in the shower? No one knows because—-

— I keep slipping down the drain. Heard that one.

Eat a fucking sandwich, you skinny cunt

The best part of the speech is it was addressed to us about the bad, vague other kids who barfed and otherwise screwed around. Those poor fuck-ups, insulting God’s creation by choosing to defile their bodies.

I couldn’t wait to get home and go for it, but felt a whole lot more like a compulsion than a choice.

I’ve heard this sermon twice, by the way. The second time, the pastor held up a paper crane and asked us to admire its delicacy and the skill it took to make it before shredding it up. Guess he worked hard on that metaphor.

That was me. A paper crane. Pure white, crafted precisely, folded up small. You could pinch my wings between your fingernails and pull them off. I wouldn’t bleed and you could vacuum me up. That was my power. The control in the fine lines and tight folds.

Anyway here I am squirming on my butt and waiting for my chance to burn off my two bites of pizza and Oreos. I’m pretty sure I’d made everyone laugh by scooting the cookies into my mouth from my forehead with no hands. See, everyone, I eat. Yeah, I was gonna have to get in some crunches tonight.

I wondered if I could chug enough lemon water to get diarrhea without being noticed, when somehow, we were looking at each other. The boy’s eyes were bright blue. Ice blue, like in cheesy books. Gay.

Skinny.

Leviticus. The apostle Paul.

Cutter.

It’s a powerful feeling, that two seconds of eye-contact that lets you know you aren’t crazy. That you aren’t the only one in the room who is angry. It is taking a hand to find it as wounded as yours.

Whatever is divine in this world, whatever is true and special and outside of ourselves, it is in the rage you can’t shake. If a voice is telling you that no one deserves to be treated this way, that you inherently do not deserve this, and you say shut up and shut up and shut up and it won’t

Shut up, shut up,

and your only answer is this is bullshit. You should get up and leave

Shut up

I said you are free to walk out,

I can’t,

well then I say you can. I say Truth never left you and you’re not dead.

disclaimer: I did not write this to shit on Christians (I am a Christian) or any tradition in general but the corruption that exists in specific systems

other disclaimer: the other kids in this story were literally also just kids, even the mean ones. I’m pretty sure all of them have grown into sensible adults I’d hang out with. I did not write this to shit on them either.

This is what I mean when I say love is beautiful. Straight or gay, it's all love.

sweethearts in photo booths (1920s-1960s)