Thursday, 7 June 2012

This is my body. Broken for nobody.

My weight fluctuates, depending on how well I'm doing at the time at fighting the good fight, defeating my demons and eating my tea. Well, it used to, by maybe about 10kg (22 pounds, for those stuck in Imperial times. God mate, just get over that system ;)), over just a few weeks, when I first started this blog. These days, it maybe does by about 3, over a month or so (oh wow, I hadn't really thought about quite how much of a difference that was, and as a way of measuring how much better I am now... shit, I'm kicking arse). Sometimes I lose, sometimes I gain, but it always levels at the same point, when I get back in control. I cannot describe my previous horror and disgust at the number it settles at, the ferocity and feralness of wanting to cut and scrape fat off, every time. Every time it settles at the exact same point, higher than the minimum my doctors like me to keep to, the number that I was once made to gain weight to, the ghost of the disorder strengthens and feeds, and the longer I stay at that number, the louder the whispers of disgust grow, until all I can hear are shouts of my deformation. And so the fluctuations begin again. Eating disorders are notoriously black and white, entirely unforgiving and constantly demanding, and to weigh more than the minimum I had to, to be healthy, has had me believing for years that stepping off that very, very fine line meant I was overweight.

The minimum number I have to weigh became bearable. Any number below creates conflict; the disorder fed for a little while and as much as I hate to think I'm falling, that my life might not end up my own again, at the same time, there's a relief. A guilty pleasure. Any number above also fed the disorder, I can slip so easily back into such an intense hatred of my physical being that somehow manages to seep through to all other areas of my being, like a person returning to an abusive partner. It's not pretty and there's no purpose other than a twisted nostalgia and familiarity that although burns, is at least known. Being what I deemed as overweight was as much of a comfort as starving or throwing up. I've spent more of my life ill than healthy; more time with my toilet than my friends; more time filling my brain with personal taunts and devising new tortures for myself than for demanding true justice; more time creating a tiny world of hell and ugliness, rather than finding beauty, or even the hell out there and demanding and creating beauty from that.

I'm just coming to the recognition now that the number I was to weigh, the number they all wanted from me, was created by a computer, a computer that knew nothing of Rebecca Condron and Her Body. The number I keep settling at is my body's, and if anybody knows Rebecca Condron and Her Body, it's her bloody body. And so this is my body, and I will not break it. I'm not naturally thin, so why on earth should I waste my beautiful mind on plans and tricks, to make it unnaturally thin? Why should I make my mind work against my body, when they're made to work together so perfectly and in sync? You give one nutrition, you give the other nutrition, and it's only when you're nourished that you can be all you were meant to be. Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, I believe in myself. I believe I can do and be something, I have such a sense of justice borne from injustice, and the first thing I need to be, cliched as it's going to sound, is myself. And myself is 3.5kg above whey want(ed) me, and that is NOT ugly and has no relevance to myself as a sentient being.

A lot of people will tell you that thin isn't beautiful or womanly and that's a bag of wrinkly, old man, bollocks, as a definitive. Eating disorders are ugly but most slim people are not ill, and even those who are, are certainly not ugly- it's just that their disease has ravaged their true, natural, beauty. Thin is beautiful when that is the body's natural shape. One of my best friends, Willis, had a baby 8 months ago and was tiny during the pregnancy, immediately after, and now, and is undeniably beautiful. Another of my best friends, Ellis, wears a couple of clothes sizes higher than I do and is stunning. She's not thin and she's certainly not fat, but she doesn't starve or stick her fingers down her throat. My body's natural size is where it is now, and it's neither thin nor fat. But it's mine and I am finished trying to make it replicate anybody else's; torturing myself over pictures of people I know who are smaller than me is about as pointless as wishing I had long fingers.

This is my body. 1.6m and 55.5kg. This is my body, broken for no body nor thing. Nor fucking disorder.

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