She’ll kill me if she ever found out I told you, but she struggled with an eating disorder.

My heart started beating faster and faster. I could feel my temperature rising; my face blushing. But I was not mad.

I came to a stark realization: I still suffer from an eating disorder.

I cannot talk about it to anyone, even my husband, because I am afraid that if I do, I will no longer be able to hide things in the future, if I need to. I am always waiting for something to trigger me, so I can cop-out and blame it on the latest crisis. In secret. I don’t want people to know I ever had an eating disorder because I don’t want them to be alarmed if I randomly decide I am not going to eat lunch today.

I have unresolved issues. I have no idea what they are, exactly. But they are unresolved. Who could understand that? Who could understand that even though I don’t show a single symptom of having an eating disorder right now, I have moments of inconsolable torment, in my head. I’m not sure what stops me from taking action (most of the time), but maybe if someone asked me once in a while, hey, how are you doing with your eating disorder? I could figure out a way to tell them.

Because I have never owned it like that before, ever. Even the people that know I have struggled in the past have no idea how badly. Nobody has asked. And I won’t ever tell them if they don’t pry a little bit, because I am embarrassed, and I am forever holding on to it like it’s going to come back one day. One day I’ll be skinny again.

Here is the deal. I want to talk about it, deep down. I need to talk about it, I think, to be healthy. I suppose that if I talk about it, I am reminding myself why I am not in that place, why I am healthy, and strong without an eating disorder. I just don’t really know how to go about talking about it.

I give everything I have or nothing at all

I’m spontaneous and a dreamer

I get lost in my thoughts, a lot

I’m polite and shy, but outgoing

I like to entertain

I require your full attention

I love summer, spring, fall and winter

I loathe winter driving

The smell of pine is my favorite

I am determined and stubborn

I’ll talk when you drag it out of me

The sun can turn my day around

I’m lazy and restless

I truly, madly love running

There is something to be said of water, to drink, swim, and play

I miss my husband like I’ve never missed before

I’m athletic

I’m emotional

I’m forgetful

I care too much what everybody thinks

I cry sparingly, and hard

I’m strong and fragile

Which is oh so very ironic because I thought I was so huge when I was running 40-50 miles a week. Now that I am running 15 miles a week, I know my body has changed, it has to be different. And, I miss the 110-pound version of myself. Really badly. I have actually gained 2 pounds in the last 3 months, and I am trying really hard to rationalize that it is because I have been lifting weight and doing a lot more strength training than I ever have in my life before…so it should be muscle weight, but I have a lot of mini panic attacks when I look at the number on the scale. Also…my jeans are SO tight and I don’t know if it is because I shrank them in the dryer, or if I have gained unfavorable weight, or if my thighs are bigger due to muscle.

Does anybody actually recognize when the number on the scale translates to something good? For instance, muscle weight gain versus fat weight gain? I cannot ever look at myself and see something that has been improved. Even if I am able to pick something out that is looking alright, I automatically avert my own attention to somewhere on my body that is flabby. It is never ever ever good enough. Even at 110 pounds, I still was not good enough. I still thought I needed to lose 10 more pounds. Right now, I could stand for 15. Unless it’s muscle weight? But how am I supposed to know? Clearly I always view myself as fat no matter what the scale says.

Problem.

I know what I weigh. I have not gained 20 pounds. or 10. or 5. The point is that I looked hideous. I looked disgustingly fat. I am not eating tomorrow. I have these half-sentences of logic swirling around in my head but they’re not complete. All that is complete is this: I am fat. I need to lose weight. I need to lose weight. right. Now.

I am fat. I feel huge. My stomach is disgusting. I am embarrassed to call myself a runner. I do not look anything like a runner. Completely disgraceful.

I absolutely have to lose ten pounds by the time TJ comes back. I am so fearful of gaining weight and looking different than I did when he left. Fuck it, you know I am really stressed. I am living in a fucking foreign country by myself. With a puppy. Who needs a lot of attention and keeps getting into trouble (think: Marley and Me). I am getting my master’s degree and working and constantly converting miles to kilometers in my head. I lifted a fucking dining room table down into the basement almost entirely by myself, until my landlord saw me and helped with the last bit. I just want my best friend to talk to. In person. I want active listening. I want to hold my husbands hand. I want my husband to hug me. And kiss me. And fall asleep with me.

It’s such a game to keep telling people how great I am doing and oh yes, I am getting A’s on my papers. Work? Oh it’s lovely! It has it’s perks. Yes, the puppy is wonderful! The house is great! Germany is awesome! Blah. It’s not that those things are lies, but it’s not what it seems.

It’s fucking hard and I just want to lose ten pounds. Why can’t I do that? Why? Why am I so weak? How hard is it to eat salad for dinner every night? It’s really not difficult. Yet, I cannot seem to gather enough willpower to avoid bad foods and spend hours working out. Things have got to change.

And then the moment retires; swallowed up by the teasing cloudy sky, along with tiny pieces of your soul.