part III: when my heart is hurting

My heart is hurting today. 

It hurt yesterday too.

but it hurts for a person

whose no longer you.

the person I loved,

the heart that I had,

aren’t the same anymore

they’re just things of the past.

// Not Lost // 

 


 

she told me to write it on paper

so I could maybe find the words

to say what I was thinking and feeling at that moment in time

 

but the thing was,

whether those words were said or written,

it didn’t matter.

I’d told you once,

I’d told you before, once too.

my words meant absolutely nothing to you.

 

you didn’t care the day I told you,

and you won’t care tomorrow.

your time is something

that can never be borrowed

 

then,

now,

there is no difference.

you hit me where it hurt,

you really let me go

you showed me you never loved me

how couldn’t I have known?

 

I don’t know what I did

or what you think I did

to make you do that

 

but now that you did,

there’s no turning back.

 

//my mistake// 


her?

of all people.

“her?”

I ask.

 

“it isn’t serious,”

you say.

“it’s nothing.”

Then why is it that we’re talking about something?

 

it seems that we talk about nothing a lot,

it seems that you forgot what nothing is not.

 

of all the nothings there are,

why her?

why now?

 

losing your something,

made you go back to “nothing”

; that in reality was never nothing at all,

just a something you called nothing

to keep in your pocket.

 

it’s too bad that the one who stood holding your alternate hand,

never knew the secret you held in the other;

that, that something she is,

is just one of the others.

 

I hope you learn to distinguish nothing from not,

because I sure as hell

am not something to be forgot.

 

“something” I am

in fact,

I am “something” you lost.

 

now your pockets are empty

there really is nothing

I hope it was worth it,

you won.

you lost your something.

 

// something or nothing //


 

when people used to say that their heart hurt,

I never believed it was literal.

it was until mine broke inside of me,

but kept beating

that I could see that living

was now much different

 

in every literal sense,

a heart can hurt

like a disease

it isn’t like a broken bone,

there’s no timeline of when it’ll heal

it’s all dependent on how you make yourself feel

 

I wonder how many times a heart can break until it becomes broken

how many pieces are there to break

and why did no one find out the number?

 

Maybe if someone would’ve told me,

I would’ve protected mine a little bit longer.

Given it a break every time or two;

like some time off,

instead of more with you.

 

maybe if I would’ve known how many more times my heart could break

I would’ve considered how much was at stake.

 

it takes 364 licks to get to the center of a tootsie pop,

how many breaks can my heart take

until its had enough?

 

1?

2?

10?

12?

 

Hell, what happens when I’ve had more than enough?

I wish someone would have told me

how many times my heart could break

but I guess it wouldn’t even matter

when all that’s left is faith

 

so really the question is how much faith can be lost

until I throw in the towel,

and love is the cost?

 

// what faith? // 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

part II: stories untold

he asked me what was wrong,

he said he was my friend.

but i sat there wondering,

what kind of friend

would do this to a friend?

// Lies People Tell //


 

saying goodbye is hard for me

because I watched the ones I loved,

leave,

without saying a word.

// wordless //


 

we’re talking

and fighting

and screaming

and crying

; pretending that we’re listening to each other’s hearts,

when we’re only really interested in our own

// we aren’t listening //


 

everyones laughing drunkenly outside the window at the memories they won’t be able to remember tomorrow

I wonder what is so appealing about the idea of forgettable nights and engaging with strangers who won’t exist by tomorrow morning

then I remember,

that forgetting those moments

allows us to re-live them over and over again

sometimes not remembering tells us

those moments were worth forgetting

because if we did remember what happened,

we may just decide to not live,

or at least live the way we did,

that night,

and on all the other nights we chose to forget

// Is this living? // 


you looked at my bones like gold,

and pushed my skin down

to imagine a finer distinction

pointier,

rougher,

and thinner

than my own

silently,

you showed me what you wanted

and what I was at that moment,

was not enough.

// Bones like Gold // 


80… 90….100 

miles per hour we go

you sped down the road

hands smashing onto the dashboard

with my screams turning into tears

as I gripped the side of my seat

accepting the fact that this car ride may never end,

and this seatbelt may never come off

unless I jump out the door

// Safety First // 


 

“pretty, pretty please Nan,

can I come back really, really soon?”

she said to me.

with tears in my eyes,

I couldn’t find the words to respond.

it had been a decade since I wished to stay somewhere

so strongly that I begged

I realized at that moment,

that I would never experience that longing again

childhood was the only time that a feeling like that existed

// Longing //


 

I look at her and wonder where the world went wrong

if everyone were to have the soul of a 3-year-old girl,

things may go differently

as I ponder,

she turns to me out of the blue and asks,

“Are you okay?”

 

I want to scream no and tell her that she’ll only be able to wonder how others feel for so long until she learns the truth,

that no one’s okay.

everyone’s pretending.

and that someday she’ll stop asking

because she’ll know the answer is a lie,

or at least not the full truth

 

the people who embrace her kindness and shield her youth today

are bound to be overpowered tomorrow

by the corruption

and anger

and guilt

and pain

that could overflow oceans

and hearts

and minds

 

during this,

all I want to do is look at her and say

“are you okay?”

because I know there will only be so many more times that

she will say yes

and really mean it without hesitation

 

but instead I tell her that I’m okay

because I need her to believe this half-truth

she has yet to unmask

 

and secretly I hope that someday

she may grow older

and still believe it

without hesitation

as I used to

before.

I think that if we all chose

to protect the hearts of 3-year-old girls,

and allowed them to bask in oblivion for just a bit longer

without exposing them to what our modern-day truth looks like

that maybe someday,

somewhere,

a little girl will create her own

 

and although she may have never known our version,

we gave her the chance

we hadn’t been given:

to form her own truth

without it being decided for her.

 

// you decide // 


 

 

 

 

 

 

Room 402

Tonight is my last sleepover with my roommate in Wilkins Hall, Room 402. We have spent the last 9-months eating together, sleeping across from each other, studying together, and so much more. I am trying so hard to not start crying writing this because I am so not ready to say goodbye to this place or the memories we made here.

You always hear roommate horror stories that terrify you in advance of leaving for college. It’s true, you cannot truly know someone by reading their Facebook bio and creeping on all of their Facebook photos. You really can’t know anyone until you meet them, and even then, you don’t know someone with complete certainty. Even people I thought I knew best ended up becoming someone entirely different.

This year has taught me one important thing: you don’t know anyone until you live beside them. I have only ever been used to living with my family, and my roommate is the first person I have lived with outside of them. This was the first time I ever lived without my family, and the first time I moved into a “new home” in 18-years.

Much like my own family, my roommate knows me best. I didn’t think that anyone could know me as closely as my own mother; I was wrong. I didn’t think that you could find your forever best friend in 9-months. Once again, I was wrong. This place, as much as I’ll miss it, means nothing without the person I shared it with.

My roommate was what made this place home. It wasn’t the decorations or the fact that we paid to live there; it was that SHE was always here. When she wasn’t, I didn’t want to be there. It’s sad that this summer I’m moving back “home” but missing the newest addition.


 

Although I will miss many parts of 402: the overwhelming heat, our couch, and the bathtub…

I will miss you more.

I’ll miss binge watching Blacklist, Bates Hotel, and Friends with you. I will miss our Monday and Tuesday designated Voice nights. I somehow will miss your spontaneous organization of the bathroom, and how you never tell me where you put my hairbrush. I will miss your sometimes obnoxious heavy breathing while you sleep. I’ll miss listening to some of your less than intelligent questions, and answers like Canada being a continent. I might even miss your stupid protein shakes and when you refuse to eat pizza with me. I’ll even miss the stupid elliptical you moved into our apartment and when you exercise as I binge eat dove chocolates.

I didn’t know that going into this that I’d find my partial twin, and future best friend. Thank you for responding to my Facebook chat, and believing in my fake bio claiming I was moderately clean. Thank you for being your emotional self and crying when hearing any sad story. Thank you for not being a complete hugger, and for sharing my same semi non-girly attitude. Thank you for telling me to not send that text.

Thank you for being sometimes too chill, and allowing me to mom you when you aren’t getting your shit together. Thank you for laughing at everything I say even though I’m not that funny. Thank you for bringing me home from the bars (most nights) and not killing me. Thank you for not getting mad at me after losing my key twice, and having to get the locks changed.. twice. Thank you for almost calling UMPD for me when you couldn’t find me. Thank you for throwing crackers back in my face when you’re under the influence and I try to feed you. Thank you for cleaning my dishes when I’m too lazy to get up and do it myself. Thank you for dealing with all of my relationships; literally all.

Thank you for basically being the best roommate a girl could ask for, and thank you for becoming a part of the place I call “home.” I know we are living together next year too, and probably the year after that, but I will always remember this year the most. You will always be my home away from home and I’m counting down the months until we share an actual home again.

Basically, I love you woman. Thank you for walking into my life; I promise, I’m never letting you walk out.

Here’s to room 402 and the best friendship its made. Room 608, here we come.

 

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part I: someone loves me

I kissed his neck and said stop talking.

thinking my mouths touch could express

every word he wished I would say

I woke up the next morning

unknowing to the damage I’d done

to his body and heart. 

/empty expressions/ 


hands that were once so loving became cold,

words that were once so kind became cruel.

is all of you a lie?

/uncertainty/ 


I looked at you and lied,

knowing that any truth I spoke

would only do you harm.

but for my own selfish reasons,

I couldn’t let you go.

/Sorry/ 


I wanted to call you and tell you about all the things that have changed,

then I remembered you were just another one of them.

/oblivion-unmasked/


imagining me & you was easy

it was as if we never fell apart.

/we did/


you made me see love

and in the process,

realize I’d never been in it.

//until now//


while a part of me wishes to kiss you,

another screams to run away.

knowing that I,

am not the only one,

to feel your abundance of love.

/always running/ 


“It makes me mad because I know I could make you so freaking happy.”

It makes me mad too.

/path-to-destruction/ 


He asked me what was wrong with me when I acted like myself.

I didn’t know how to reply.

/unwanted?/ 


I regret letting you pressure me into believing

that love was expressed through touch.

there are different forms of affection

that don’t require taking my clothes off.

/impure/


Do you love me?

Are you in love with me?

At all?

Or do you only desire the idea of me?

I’m starting to feel like a project

/a work in progress/ 

a detour

I know I said that this was the beginning of finding myself and all, but really I feel like college has actually taken me in the opposite direction. It isn’t its fault or anything, it’s honestly my own. I think that once you come here as a freshman it’s hard to grasp right from wrong and how to say no in general. A time of such instability and change has created even more anxiousness and misunderstanding than when I was in high school. Who would’ve known?

I thought when I left that I could find a fresh start and potentially become someone else. I realize now that I am the only one blocking my transition. It’s hard not knowing anyone and honestly not even knowing yourself. You can feel yourself drift, but for some reason there’s always something pulling you back to where you used to be. The comparison happens to be even worse, and the self deprecation only increases within your first weeks of rushing. It’s crazy how confident you can feel with yourself, and without even knowing it, completely forget all of the great things you loved. It’s even harder not being surrounded by the people who kept tabs on you for 4-years and constantly reminded you of your goodness.

College is basically like remaking yourself, but somehow I managed to remake me into a worse version. A lot of the things I loved in high school and never felt the need to take part in feel almost essential now in order to fit in. I used to not even care about fitting in, but at least in high school people noticed. It feels like you could disappear amongst a crowd here without a soul knowing, maybe besides my roommate. A lot of the qualities I had feel as if they’re irrelevant now; it seems like everyone’s wanting something different.

This probably sounds like a total bummer post and is long overdue to be honest, but I promise it’s gonna get better. That is the one thing I could never guarantee myself in high school.  It just feels like sometimes I’ve lost sight of what I came here for in the first place,  but maybe I’m just looking at it the wrong way.

It’s crazy how many things change throughout your first 6-months of college, and even crazier to see how much independence you develop. I think I was well prepared for this and I haven’t had that hard of a time adjusting. I will say that sometimes (well, oftentimes) I desire the comfort of my own bed and my picture scattered wall. I spent a lot of time in my room throughout high school, the good times and bad. Although I call this place home now, it doesn’t really feel like mine. It’s hard to sit here and think the way I used to, but I guess thats just growing up. It’s also important for me to remember that sometimes letting go of old memories is the only way to move forward. I keep waiting to relive the past and by now,  I should know better than this.

If I could go back and tell myself anything at the beginning of my senior year I’d say: “choose yourself.” I think that’s something I always thought I was good at, but honestly was horrible at. The slightly older I get, the more I realize how much I wish I would’ve prioritized my growth over others. I feel like if I would’ve loved myself a little bit more, I would be in a way better spot than I am at this moment. It’s too easy to repeat old habits and comparison games when you lose comfort in who you are. It’s hard to let other people love you when you find every reason to not love yourself. Cliché, but somehow this always manages to be my worst living nightmare.

As much as I understand this fault, I have repeatedly chosen to not do anything about it. It’s sad to say it isn’t oblivion anymore, it’s just fear. It’s also sad that I used to not be this person, and I’m not totally sure when I lost her. I don’t think it was ever relying on others that initiated my problem, I think it was just avoiding it as a whole. I wish I could understand how to fill my empty voids. Somehow I just end up using control methods as a way to fill them, whether it be my weight or perfecting some other element of my appearance, I always seek gratification in the unattainable. One pound feels great, how about 6 more? That’s my problem: it’s never enough.

Basically, I’m hoping that by understanding this I can stop fulfilling other people, and choose myself for once. I keep doing things and acting in the same patterns knowing they’re destructive, but somehow deciding to not stop them. It’s honestly like sometimes I enjoy making myself fall down. Pretty screwed up. I don’t know where I got it from, but I do know I need to change it.

Maybe small steps aren’t my answer anymore, and drastic measures are necessary in order to make a change. It’s time for me to choose me.

Okay, sorry for the babble.

Sincerely,

Me.

 

the wheelchair mobile

This past summer, 3 friends and I (all recent high school gradates) decided to journey to the zoo. You’re probably wondering why we would do that as 18-year-olds; I’m still kinda wondering that too. It was half off and adult night, not that it mattered because we didn’t have fake ID’s. Despite this, we stood in the long line and waited for our tickets. Now, I should’ve expected something like this to happen with these friends. As always, I didn’t.

Once getting past the ticket line, one of my friends pointed out the four wheelchair mobiles availably sitting in front of us. Semi-kiddingly, my friend still in line asked if they were available for rent. I silently prayed in the back of my head that this woman would realize it was a horrible idea to rent this contraption out to 4 teenagers; my prayer wasn’t answered to say the least.

Before I knew it, my friends all hopped on their wheelchair mobiles (I really don’t know what it’s called) and sped off. Me, as usual, could not operate any type of machinery (probably why I still don’t have my license) and continuously lagged behind them basking in stares. Wishing I had some substance impairment related to why I made this $10 decision in the first place, I kept driving forward cautiously.

We encountered many groups of people at the zoo. I drove by adults ranging from their mid 20’s and late 70’s, they all had the same thing in common: a reaction. It wasn’t until I ran into another rightful owner of a wheelchair mobile that I felt my anxiety really kick in. I ducked as my friends saluted their fellow mobile member.

While some people passed us with disgust, others cheered in approval screaming “f*** yeah, how’d you guys land that?” We’d laugh at first and then slowly realize that people didn’t think we actually paid for this experience, but rather stole it from people in need. Lots of people would make not so subtle comments under their breath about how we were assholes; the thing is, I didn’t completely disagree with them.

As if the ride hadn’t felt long enough, the wheelchair mobiles ahead of me seemed to fade into the distance as I was trapped in between zoo-goers buying drinks. This, as you can imagine, was my worst nightmare. Slowly trying to pry myself through them, a 20-something old girl looks me straight in the eyes and says, “yeah! you really look disabled. bet you think you’re real funny! Ha!” With an outburst slowly growing inside of me, I continued to try to pry my way out, but not in time to miss this last memorable comment.

The 20-something old girl’s friend looks at me, then her, and loudly, and hopefully drunkenly whispers “DUDE… look at her! Stop. She’s actually disabled,” in DEAD seriousness. Let’s just say I stepped on that buggy and didn’t look back.

While this story may sound offensive, it is entirely not my intention. The only problem with this comment was that at the time, I was a healthy 18-year-old girl with completely functioning limbs and obtained zero signs of a deformity? I am to this day very confused how I somehow expressed myself in a different manner other than my extreme awkwardness seeming a bit twitchy. Maybe it was my face? I don’t know. What I do know is, I will never be riding a wheelchair mobile in the zoo again, especially on adult night.

Damn, they really hit you where it hurts.

Sincerely,

Me.

(The Asshole?)

 

 

 

an open apology to myself 

DEAR MIND,

I am sorry for the times I doubted and ignored you. I’m sorry for damaging you for what I thought was eternal. I’m sorry for allowing others to, too. I’m sorry for overworking you until you felt empty. I’m sorry for not letting you make me happy, I know you tried. I’m sorry for redirecting your thoughts and changing your views. I’m sorry for not listening and not acting upon every instruction you rightfully gave me. I’m sorry for losing you when I needed you the most.

DEAR HEART,

I’m sorry for making you feel weak when all you wanted to be was strong. I’m sorry for letting others tug on your strings whenever they pleased. I’m sorry for not guarding you with my entire being. I should’ve. I’m sorry for letting you go, only to call back for you, again and again. I’m sorry for letting you break. I’m sorry for not realizing how much love you held until I took it all away.

DEAR EYES,

I’m sorry for letting you become weary and dry. I’m sorry for the rivers you’ve cried and the sorrow, only you, have seen. I’m sorry for the things you saw; the things you shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for not turning away. I’m sorry that you couldn’t speak the emotions your pupils conveyed. I’m sorry you had to sit there, watching, defenseless. I, at times, feel the same.

DEAR MOUTH,

I’m sorry for the things I did and didn’t put inside of you. I’m sorry for neglecting you on the days you watered pining for nourishment and love. I’m sorry for letting mouths of those who mean nothing to me force themselves upon you. I’m sorry for their brittle touch and for the way it made you quiver. I’m sorry for the times you wished to scream, but said nothing at all. I couldn’t bare your sound. I’m sorry for the times you spoke too loudly and abruptly, creating no influence at all. I know you thought it would help. I’m sorry for not loving you the way you should be loved, I’m sorry for not letting others.

DEAR BODY, 

I’m sorry for the way your ribs peak out when you breathe. I’m sorry for not providing adequate warmth. I’m sorry for trying to make you looking like something that’s photoshopped onto billboards; I’m sorry for only loving you when I felt that you did. I’m sorry for letting others look at you like something that’s already theirs. I’m sorry for letting you feel like instantly acquired property rather than a hidden buried treasure. I’m sorry for the hands that touched you in your coldest moments. I’m sorry that I believed that they could provide you warmth.

I’m sorry for the times that I couldn’t avoid others’ grasps. I’m sorry for the way they gripped you; ways you shouldn’t ever be gripped. I’m sorry for not pushing back hard enough, for not defending you enough. I’m sorry that people feel entitled to your embrace. I’m sorry that they think you’re an open invitation. I wish that no meant no. Some tend to believe that no means yes, or at least that’s what they said. They thought you wanted their touch. Maybe they knew you didn’t, but didn’t care at all. I’m sorry for not loving you for what you precisely are. I wish I never expected more of you. I’m sorry for letting society conform you into a mold of something other than yourself. You are perfect, I hope it isn’t too late for you to see it.

DEAR ME,

I’m sorry for not allowing you to be your true self. I’m sorry for seeing you worst qualities rather than your best. I’m sorry for thinking that critiquing  was the only path to bettering yourself. I’m sorry for truly believing that you weren’t ever enough for yourself, or much less the world. I’m sorry for not telling you your own worth, every morning and evening, of every day. I’m sorry for not cherishing you the way you should be cherished. I’m sorry for thinking that others could fulfill your needs. I’m sorry for seeing you as one human of the billions, rather than one of a kind.

You are perfect and you are mine.“”

the journey continued

Dear blog, I have failed you.

I have failed to see your importance in my life and the endless outlet you provided for me,  my problems and my joys.  Some days I just felt out of words, and others I felt that I couldn’t provide you what you deserved. I realize now that the reason I stopped writing was because of nothing other than myself and my own fears.  I let peoples’ words stop me from saying my own and I can’t explain the regret I feel for pausing this journey.

To those of you reading who feel trapped by the obligations of life and fear of others’ expectations: stop. The things you love are important. In fact, they’re essential. I love writing, I stopped writing. I forgot that my feelings are raw, honest and important. I realize now that it’s necessary to expose my own thoughts knowing that some don’t have the courage to themselves. I know because I was that girl.

To the girl who emailed me a year ago saying that my words kept her afloat in times of need, I looked back at your email today. It reminded me of how ignorant I have been towards MY purpose.

While some may not see or agree with what I do, I know deep down that this is me. I refuse to censor myself any longer. I have felt the power in my hands since the day my mom gave me my first journal. Making a difference is hard, but words have the power to in such small or HUGE ways. They can make you laugh, cry, and smile. They can make you feel the weight of the world when you feel absolutely empty. It’s a privilege to find your passion as some search for it their entire lives.

Now, I’m the girl who needs words to keep her afloat. I am in need, once again,  for this outlet and journey to continue. I want to share this with others because I know how easy it is to give up on the things you love in fear that you are incapable of keeping them. I am tired of feeling like I have to please everyone other than myself. It’s time to find me again. The best way of doing that for myself is to continue documenting my journey. This blog started my sophomore year summer, now I’m a freshman in college. I have overcome the worst and I hope everyone sees that they have the power to, too.

Now I’m going to end this sob story and go to class. I am still trying to find my sanity every day and I hope you try to, too. Thanks for listening.

xxx,

Emilee

 

more than a number

one day you’re 115, the next you’re 110.

you know you shouldn’t desire to weigh any lower.

before you know it,

you weigh 106.

the world starts to spin on its axis again.

but little do you know,

each day fluctuates pound by pound.

soon you’re back at 110.

your lowest low feels like your highest high,

it’s time to start over again.

unless your ribs are perfectly defined,

is there really a point in living?

how do I wear a suit like this?

how do I walk around in a bra?

much less, how do I stand with my body on display like a sculpture

only to be analyzed with every curve and line?

how do I know you’ll see me

for more than a number?

for more than the grasp of my skin?

how do I know you won’t judge me

and forget the beauty inside?

how do I remember that I

am worth more than number?

when inside,

it feels that it’s all that’s left.

an unattainable number

and an unfit body on display

and a mind that reminds me

I’m not worth more

every single damn day.

 

 

 

Dear Ana 

To my dear friend Ana and to the friends who struggle because of her,

It is national eating disorder awareness week and I feel an obligation to at least blog to my few subscribers of my own journey and the countless others I’ve witnessed.

Ana starting talking to me my sophomore year of high school. Things weren’t going well with a boyfriend and I felt out of control. I made poor decisions that I regretted for the rest of high school (and in general life). I have major OCD which initially caused me to be a perfectionist within my school work and a constant need to control relationships and friendships.

When all of these things spiraled out of my control, there was a final resort: my weight. It felt like the most magnificent way to solve my problems. Once I hit my breakup, I had one thing left for myself: my appearance. I’m a short petite person. 115- 120 pounds is more than enough for me. But these high 120’s began to feel like 200’s. I wanted less 0’s. Around that time, I remember a friend took a picture of me jokingly as I changed somewhere in the high school. I remember her showing me my rib cage. It was the first time I noticed that I didn’t look as great as I thought I did.

But I kept going anyways. I picked the tightest dress I could for a dance. At this point, I was 100 pounds. I maintained that weight as long as I could in the worst ways possible. I didn’t eat. I recreationally took things I definitely shouldn’t have. My personality spiraled down the drain.

Boys noticed me. Girl friends asked me why I wasn’t eating at lunch, if everything was okay, are you hungry, etc. Friends would offer their sandwiches and I’d reply that I wasn’t hungry.

I did this for a long time my sophomore year without much notice from anyone. Eventually, I stopped. As I always do. In stages, Ana comes in and out of my life telling me to lose those 10 pounds so I can look acceptable again.

What’s funny is, I’ve never been told that I wasn’t enough. My parents told me more than enough times. My dad hounded on me to eat every meal. My mom tells me how skinny I look. I’m not sure where the insecurity comes from. I’m not sure it is even an insecurity.

All I know is that in a mirror, it’s the first thing I notice every day. If I’m one pound heavier, I feel worse than the day before. Things need to remain the same. I need that sense of stability. I think what I enjoy(ed) was the reaction of it all.

I craved the attention of looking like someone I wasn’t. With that, I became someone I wasn’t too.

Ana is a lifelong shadow for anyone who has experienced an eating disorder or insecurity. She has the power to mentally destroy you. But I plea with you not to let her.

I’m struggling daily to remind myself that I can be beautiful at 112 pounds. But I keep telling myself anyway. Find a reason to keep Ana locked in the shadows and not reflecting through your mirror.

Beautiful is beautiful. Beautiful is not skinny. Ana is not beautiful. You are the only one who determines your worth.

Stop believing society’s definition of beautiful. Stop commenting on skinny girls instagrams telling them “I want your body.” Chances are, she’s craving that comment so she has the motivation to lose more. Stop looking in the mirror and changing clothes in hopes of looking skinnier. You already look skinny. Eat a burger. Eat whatever. Just eat. Remember that a size doesn’t define you.

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