Saturday, February 21, 2015


So I think I pulled a muscle in my leg? It's always somethin' with me, isn't it? Last night it was a small cut on my thumb which had me worried. Tonight it will be the muscle. A few nights ago it was something even too embarrassing for me to admit. And I will admit almost anything! Let's just say it was a butt-related worry. Worries, dudes! They aren't worth it! I am not too worried about the muscle in my leg (yet). I am not too worried about much at the present moment. Except...

Except I took a look at myself. Like, a real look. Not just the check-my-temperamental-bangs-in-the-bathroom-mirror look. But also not the smoke-peyote-in-the-desert-and-see-into-my-soul look. It was just a selfie, folks. Hey, I wanted to see what I looked like without makeup, okay? When I reviewed said selfie (and to be honest, it was more than one selfie -- c'mon!), the first thing I noticed was not the fact that I was au naturale. The first thing I noticed was that I was au skinny-as-fuck. Sick skinny. (Side note: I hope saying I look skinny does not trigger anybody. Like I said, it is a sick skinny. It is not a good thing. Again, it is not a good thing.)

I am wearing a v-neck and in the picture you can see every bone and vein in my neck and chest. It made me cringe. It wasn't a cringe that was full of self-hatred. It was a cringe full of, finally, self-compassion. And worry. I never worry about myself. I worry about the cuts and the butts, but that really isn't myself. The minor cuts and embarrassing butt issues are merely distractions from bigger issues. I should be more concerned with my heart and my anemia and the fact that I haven't had a menstrual cycle in four years. Who cares if I'm wearing liquid eyeliner or not? I should care about how I'm wearing myself down to the literal bone. I should care more about nourishing my body, less about my disagreeable bangs.

And I am trying. You know that I am. I give myself a much deserved pat on the back every afternoon after I consume a banana. And that's great. Wonderful! Progress! Baby steps, sure, but progress nonetheless! Now isn't the time for baby steps, though. Now is the time for leaps. My life might depend on me leaping. Am I being melodramatic? I very well could be. I am known to be a tad theatrical. Still, when someone with such a warped view of their body can actually admit publicly that they look sick, that's saying a lot. But do I feel sick? I don't even know what sick or healthy feels like anymore. I am stuck in this strange space of ambiguity. I am disconnected. I have to make my way back to myself.

So I am not my cuts. I am not my butt. I am not my bangs or my bare skin or my shrunken cheeks. And I am not even my eating disorder, although it would seem like it. I am not that. I am none of these things. I am Meghan and I am undefined. I know I am missing pieces; I hunger for wholeness. I want to reconnect, reinvent, restore. I want to become. I want to survive.

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