Dear friends, lovers, and in-betweens,

The last time I was in Zalka was a trip. My cousin spent day after day monitoring her food intake, watched my sister and I lick our ice cream cones with pleasure, watched us eat without worry. Her diet meant no sugar, no candy, no sweets. It meant no carbs, no bread, no pasta. When we went out to restaurants, she chose the salad with the blandest dressing. I would say I felt bad for her but I used to be her. Have you ever calorie counted? Have you ever stopped eating after six pm? When you tell me you’re giving up brown sugar, I have to ignore you until I forget that we’re even eating, forget the calories, forget bad food. You try to get me to take the Doritos home so you don’t eat them and this is when your eating disorder contends with mine. We resolve to eat them together so we both feel in control. What kind of labour goes into pretending? I dye my hair grey to match my Instagram handle, pretend I have a brand I need to uphold, as though my followers aren’t just you and my mother.

When I used to try not to eat, I’d get so faint that I felt like I had lost all the blood inside of me. It seemed unimaginable that this didn’t mean something was wrong with me. Another time, I biked up a hill with flat tires that I didn’t realize were flat, deep pools of sweat burbling over my shoulder blades and my spine, making their way down to the crack of my ass. I blamed myself for getting out of shape and barely made it home in one piece. Years later, my fibro diagnosis finally made sense, the way I called my fatigue laziness, the way I compared myself to others. You tell me that I’m the person with chronic pain who shows it the least. I don’t tell you it’s because I learned how to hide any perceived weakness from a young age. I take it as a compliment even though it shouldn’t be. My back starts hurting and I can almost feel it screaming internalized ableism as it squeaks and cracks. As it begins to grow louder, I shout over it, pretending I didn’t hear it. It goes on like this for many years. Do you see how stubborn I am? I tell my therapist I’m my own worst enemy and she tells me, no, that’s his voice inside your head. We come to a stalemate, and it takes me two weeks to agree with her. I come back with my tail between my legs and she laughs. I don’t need to be right; I just want you to feel better. I almost hug her but remember that is unprofessional. So I just tell her I like her earrings, seems like a good compromise.

Try therapy at least once if you can afford it. It helps me get out of bed to hear my therapist’s voice over his.

xoxox,
Eli