Going through the worst relapse yet, one that is not only filled with a renewed wish not to eat, but also with the self loathe, the self hate, that used to accompany all my already ugly thoughts, I can only remind myself of what you taught me. If I believe everyone deserves love, then why don’t I? And if I can look at you and feel tears pricking behind my eyes for the sheer human beauty of your stomach, your legs, the way your too-tight shirt hugs the chest I love, then why can’t I have those thoughts about myself?
I am going through a rough time at the moment. But somehow, I am confident this time might be different. This time, I know what I’m missing out on. I know that there’s so many feelings out there to be felt - and that there’s no time to be wasted on hating myself instead.
Average is a silly word.
Average is the title
on a length/weight graph
Average is a serving size
In a dusty road restaurant
Average is the accumulative of your grades
divided by how long you’ve been here
Average is never a personal trait
Average is never a suitable label
Average is never a human being
Average will never,
They say Rome
was not built in a day
But I don’t remember a process
I don’t remember bricks upon bricks
All I recall is waking up one day
and finding that there’s nowhere left to go.
The deeper I dig for memories of some time that was clear of worry, the more I realize: the lines within my head have always been blurred. The feeling of being misunderstood, by all those people who appeared so effortlessly sane around me, began as I blurted my very first word.
My parents staring at me, thinking what this would count as: A win for mummy, or for dad?
It was neither.
It was loss. It was the first sign that wherever I’d be in the coming years,
I’d always want out.
I hate locking it inside.