Dear Ed: A Letter To My Eating Disorder
Dear Ed: A Letter To MY Eating Disorder
By Grace Clendening
Art By hailey Kroll
For those who have been there,
waiting for me to open up
Dear Ed,
Happy Anniversary! I cannot imagine my life without you, stealing every moment and taking each breath ‘till I have no fight in me left. This year marks a decade: a milestone deserving celebration, yet nobody else will be invited. Turning 22 years old should be more than a remembrance of who could have been. That math is too quick, that age too young. When you saw me for the first time, I was 12 years old, and I fell because you pushed and pulled, then pulled and pushed. Your desire made me feel seen, worth being counted, so I stepped aside, let you in, and we have lived together since. Though I was wrong about you then: I was nothing but another door for you to force open when one of your doors had slammed close. For 10 years, I have been embarrassed and afraid of our relationship consuming me, and yet I care for you, my finest line, because for the life of me I understand.
When I first met you, I idealized you, and you took advantage. You knew I would sit with you, for forever if you needed, and listen. You knew the depth of my care and the ferocity of my love, and you took the opportunity to be free. I was your life-saving breath. You were drowning in oceans formed by your tears of pain, joy, sadness, happiness, despair, hope. Oceans. You were burning in fires fueled by your sparks of weakness, strength, anger, kindness, hate, love. You were being buried alive in the earth by your bad and your good, suffocating in reality–in the gray between black and white. You were dying, and I was the air you needed to breathe, so I do not blame you: I understand. The world is a heavy hold, and I lended you a hand; I cannot blame you for my weight because you had no choice.
Ever since, I have blown candles out on my birthday wishing for enough, as if each candle added each year increased the chances of my wish coming true. I would have been ashamed for making anyone feel like such a waste, which is why I believe you tried your worst to help me. If we are similar, then we are through having good intentions. What you tried, though–my body quickly became a sacrifice. I traded the nature of my body to feel less. I gave up the first piece of myself without a second thought, and in doing so I unconsciously gave permission for more pieces to be taken. When I look in a mirror, I cannot trust my reflection because I see someone–something–different every time. I beg what I would see had you not sold my body to bathroom scales and measuring cups and small clothes. I beg what I would see had I not starved myself of forty pounds in four months and felt sought after for the first time; had I not gained every pound back and been deafened by the sudden silence. I beg what I would see had we not subjected ourselves to suffering a lifelong acceptance that we cannot be put back together as we once were. How can I begin recovery not knowing who I am recovering? Please–
I am embarrassed, Ed, not only by you, but also by myself. I am an empty shell of who I once was–hold me, hear my oceans–yet I have no regret reaching out to you. You were alone, tired, and desperate for grace, and I was desperate for a best friend. Though I think you feel guilty. I think you regret dragging me down beneath your surface. You thought casting your burdens on me would lighten your load, but your burdens only doubled because together we could carry twice as much. I hold you in one hand and the weight of our world in the other, and I will continue, or we will be crushed. Hating you should be, would be easier, but I could not hate you even if I tried: I require all of my hatred for myself.
I am afraid, Ed, of more than food and photographs and you. I am afraid of myself. There is life inside me, bursting at my seams, and I am afraid of caring so deeply, of loving so fiercely, of living so freely! I AM AFRAID! I am afraid of myself, and I–I fear I will be so until I learn how to bear badness in my blood; even worse, how to bear goodness in my bones. I fear I will be so until you learn how to accept, and never forget, that beauty is a standard from feeling ugly; that lightness is a relief from feeling heaviness; that two things can and always will be true. I fear I will be so afraid until we part, but if we part, then I–I give up my last piece. You have shared my mind and body and soul: counted my calories, stood on my scale, converted my core beliefs, so if we part, then who will you have, and what will I do? Where will you go? When will you stop? Why will I miss you? How will I live, if not for you?
I have run from feeling for so long, and I am tiring. There is no escaping my flooding waves or my scorching flames because I am staggering on solid earth and gasping on fresh air. I am being pushed and pulled, pulled and pushed, again, not by you, Ed, but by the depths of my bad and the gravity of my good, so I face another choice: Drown and burn. Live and breathe. The decision is all I am. If not for you, I would choose wrong.
Ten years ago, my mistake was not letting you in, but closing my door behind you.
Yours,
Grace Margaret