I used to be real wonky around food. I'm not so much anymore. I just like running and playing in the ocean and never, ever taking myself seriously.

Let’s talk about food for a bit, kay?

Because, let’s be real here, it’s all I ever think about.

Food. All the time.

And now it’s awful. It’s like I’m a thirteen year old boy who just figured out what his penis is. All I do I think about it, but I don’t do anything about it. I don’t have the control or the willpower I used to.

There is no victory for me in eating. No satisfaction from stuffing my face. None of that elation I got from the bland smile and the lie, “No, thanks. I ate before I and here.”

I was never diagnosed. I was never real bad. I was never treated.

And so I can do recovery well.

No one else will congratulate me for eating peanut butter in a non-disordered manner. No one will admire me for not going on a run. People will mock me when I choose to eat something less than healthy or when I have a snack when others aren’t eating.

There is no support system for me out in the real world. No one to see me truly and tell me I’m doing a good job.

That makes this struggle so much worse, I think, because I’m the only one holding me accountable and all the glamour of recovery has kind of faded away for me.

Reblogged from n-ourishing  200 notes

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you’re a five year old’s best pal.
she dresses up in a tutu and tiara
and dances as she watches her reflection sparkle.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you reflect a ten year old with her doll.
she smiles at her doll’s perfect curls,
and tries to mimic it in her own through twirls.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you’ve pushed too hard and she’s starting to fall.
having only just become a teenage girl,
she has already started to lose her hair.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you have been newly purchased and you’re five feet tall.
she stands in front of you and picks apart her body
fifteen years old and already under ninety..

mirror, mirror on the wall,
her walk is turning into a crawl.
life is consumed with food and numbers
and getting out of bed in the morning is not even considered.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you’re a completely shattered mess.
with shards of glass and a pool of blood,
she wishes she were dead.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you are reduced to a tiny square.
she is not allowed to look at the stomach
which caused her to end up there.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you’re finally becoming a friend again.
she’s gaining weight, but also life,
and she can smile at her reflection.

mirror, mirror on the wall,
you’re a recovered girls best pal.
at nineteen years old, she stands up tall
wearing her best dress and painted nails.

she looks into her mirror and starts to smile,
thinking back on her five year old self.
she reaches into her dresser and grabs that old tiara,
so thankful that all over again, she is allowing herself to sparkle.

By a disordered girl’s relationship with her mirror // Hannah B.  (via n-ourishing)

Reblogged from metamorphosisofmeg  1,728 notes

If you’re going to measure your self worth by a number you might as well do it by the number of marshmallows you can fit in your mouth at any one time or the number of m&ms you can throw up and catch in a row rather than the number on a tape measure or a scale. They both have about the same level of accuracy but marshmallows and m&ms sounds like a better idea to me. By don’t measure your self worth off of anything, you are worth more than any number there is  (via metamorphosisofmeg)