How I iswasam

My mother's mother, my Naniji, died 24 years ago, today. That is longer than my whole life.

This morning, after a decent night's rest (trust me, I needed it), the first thing I checked was the mirror- if my tummy had shrunk from the four hours of mindless walking with my laptop in my hand I had done last night. It hadn't.

I Googled "feeling fat," "bloating" (Google knows my searches), expecting some answers to make my day suddenly better; and there was that thought again- if I was thinner I know I could sit down and study and not have to worry about all the calories in food. The truth is, as much as I hate counting calories and as much as the whole "recovery" thing makes sense theoretically, the practical side is very different. It seems too good to be true, and maybe my obsession with certain numbers, food and exercise is now just part of my life.

I wonder- I wonder what changed in those 24 years since my Naniji died- my mother got up, she had me.

While Naniji lays resting, my mind works against me. It is dangerous to say that I wish I was resting instead of worrying, because I don't know where that will lead me. I have learnt a lot, and as some have noticed, there has definitely been a change- I repeat- my mind works, my body has more energy than when it was shutting off every time I tried to use it, my hormones are getting interesting, I can do more things socially and I feel like an almost normal 22 year old. But there are still some dangerous, evil thoughts that reveal their faces and they scare me. I never want to go back to how I was.

I didn't believe anyone when they said my thoughts were skewed or my body was deteriorating. I didn't believe anyone until I saw some of my old journals from 2008 and old photos from just two years ago, in the judgement of my more practical, healthy mind. One of my goals was "to be skinny," and "be really good at something," along with "marry Taylor Lautner" (probably the healthiest on that list and before I gave my hormones a run for their money). I honestly thought that everything would be okay if I had those things. I remember writing a letter to my body, telling her it was perfect like this. Let me tell you, I had starved it for months by then, and she was beginning to look like I wanted her to. I still had some edits I wanted to make, which I also wrote in that letter.

I remember writing that letter clearly, and also what happened after that. I ripped it up and cried. Fine, that would make a good movie scene, but I basically did that- stared and hated myself for it, felt numb, then threw it out in case I could never look like that again; the body I wanted would not be there forever.

Call it vanity or self obsession, I was obsessed with my body, but not for the sake of it.* I wanted to be the best at something because things were lacking, I had been the follower, the "nice" girl, never really got angry or sad, lived the "perfect" life. Sure, on the outside it is/was true, but I have never felt such a freedom in being outwardly angry or crying than I did when I started being sick. To be free to reveal my emotions is truly liberating and I am only beginning to understand that. I now look at those "teen angsty" people in envy because I never got to be like that.

From the beginning of school, we have been taught things in binary, black and white, yes or no. Sad was bad and happy was good. Angry was bad and thankful was good. Bad and good, no in between. No "lets have a look at the circumstances and then judge." Nope, none of that. In English class, too, we have been taught to "be creative" but take it back because those thoughts won't get you the marks. The curtains were not blue for that, they were blue for this, the teacher would tell us and we would write that in the exams and get out marks.

And so I smile a lot- I smile when I'm happy I smile when I am sad I smile when I am angry or hurt or broken or anything on that scale. But I cry when I am alone or someone tells me it's okay to cry- then there are tears that would not fill any amount of tissues, and snot that gets everywhere. It's not pretty and this is not a movie scene. It is my life and it is real.

I thought I was recovering, and I want to tell someone how hard this is, but I am so used to being that "nice, smart girl" that no-one sees or believes me on the rare occasion when I whisper about how difficult it is. I am trying to finish a medical degree in which I have already failed twice, work, trying to work out my social life, my body, boys, friends, feelings. It doesn't sound like a lot (there I go again) but each of those components is heavy. It's like cramming for an exam except it's almost seven year's worth of growth in just a few months.

Slow down, give me a break.

RIP Naniji.

* I am aware that I have changed my body from being "her" to "it," because I honestly want to believe that it is just a vehicle, it is not me.