Asking for Help: A letter from me...
I entered a treatment center for my eating disorders in Oct., 2012. It may cost as much as $150,000 to help me recover. I'm now attending Remuda Ranch in Chandler, AZ. This blog chronicles my experience.A letter from me. Please read!.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The thing I’ve been dreading since I admitted to CFC. Since BEFORE I admitted to CFC
This morning I put on my pants. The pants that I wore when I admitted to CFC.
And they ripped.
Ugh. I feel so. . . .I don’t know what. Sad?
You know that book about the 4 friends who find a pair of pants that magically fit all of them, even though they are very different sizes? Yeah, those don’t exist.
Another thing that doesn’t exist is a pair of jeans that will fit you for your entire life. Obviously as a baby/toddler/child/teenager your size changes drastically; but even in adulthood you’d be hard pressed to find someone who’s pant size hasn’t changed a lot over the years.
Pants. I really hate pants. I think we might have been better off as women if we always had to wear skirts. Silly women’s movement, what were they thinking?? Pants have been my nemesis for a long time. I’ve hated my thighs since I was about 12. A way of gauging how much weight I’ve gained, how different I most look. Today I’m wearing a pair of jeans that literally fell off me when I wore them before. In other words, I never wore them. But today they fit. They fit loosely, but they fit. I remember looking at my “fat” jeans and thinking “wow, how could anyone ever fill out something so big?” And now they fit.
We all have clothes here--our sick clothes--”trophies” we cling to as proof that we once had the “willpower” to starve ourselves to emaciation. I still have some of mine. most of mine. A lot of them are at my house in seattle and I’m hoping I can get rid of them without actually having to go through them. Which is unlikely. I’m not ready to give all of them up yet. I’m not sure why. they make me feel sad. they make me feel heavy. I can’t wear them at a healthy weight, so really they’re not doing me any good.
And yet I still want them. Like keeping a wedding ring after a divorce; a token of something I kind of miss, that I’ll never have again, that I'm maybe a little nostalgic for even though I know it was not good for me.
This is a letter my friend wrote to her sick pants:
Dear Sick Pants,
I wish I could say I won’t miss you. You are a beautiful, 300 dollar pair of jeans. Your glitter pockets, your slim leg, your dark wash are all perfect. I always knew when I wore you, compliments would come my way. While I will miss your fantastic qualities, I will not miss the life I had in you. Despite my blinged out pockets and a price tag that could fool others into thinking I had my life all together, I was extremely unhappy. I was dying, in every meaning of the word. I was hollow, in pain, and lost. I was using you as a way to try to feel better, a way to convince myself that starving, compulsively exercising, lying, hurting my loved ones, missing school and work because I passed out, and wasting my weekends on a toilet because of laxative abuse was worth it because I knew you would fit me, you would look lovely, and you would camouflage the agony.
Well sick pants, it’s over now. I don’t need you to conceal my hurt and pain anymore because I am healing on my own. I no longer have to use you for confirmation that I am ok, that I am worthwhile, that I deserve life. I know that myself. Your fancy pockets and small size no longer hold so much value in my mind. I can now buy a new pair of pants to fit my new body and my new life. Obviously a new cute pair of pants that look fabulous on me, but that don’t signify who I am or where I am in my life.
Thank you for your time sick pants, you did serve a purpose. You did help me… but I no longer need your support. We are through. Bye.
Another friend wrote:
Dear Sick Pants,
I don’t miss you. F--- off.
This is mine:
I resent you. I miss you. I want to fit into you, but I want other things more.
I need to let you go because you are a reminder of my sickness. You are a tool I use to gage how much weight I’ve gained, or how fat I am.
You are not comfortable.
I can squeeze myself into you, but you’re not comfortable.
You don’t fit me, and I’m tired of trying to make myself fit you--that’s so backwards.
You are nothing more than physical proof that I used to kill myself.
I want you, but I don’t want you more.
Plus you ripped.
You can go live in the trash now.