I don’t want to write this. I’m scared to write this. What else do you want from me? I’m not going to say what you want to read. A perfect white page tarnished with my rubbish and tears. I can’t tell you how Im over this, I can’t use fancy words or poetic concepts. I can only say this: Im sad. Sad it’s come to this. Sad I’m sat here writing about how sad I am. I don’t want to view myself in this way, looking at my body as if it’s the enemy. An enemy I am bent on destroying. I want to look at it like a friend. Problem is we don’t recognise each other anymore. Who am I? I can’t even answer. I don’t know.
I used to be so carefree. I used to have dreams. I used to dance and skip. I’d walk to the beat of my own drum. An artist by nature I’d create beauty with words, movement, projection, story, emotion. I’d stand, unafraid, on a stage. ‘Hear what I have to say’. But now, silence. Darkness has entered instead.
Everything’s been ripped out and I feel a shell. Where is that girl? I cry out but she is nowhere to be found.
They tell you being thin will make you happy. They tell you it will make you healthy. You’ll be a success. They also inform you Anorexia will rob your womenhood, make your hair fall out and your bones crumble. All of which are killing me. But they don’t tell you how you lose yourself. The core part of who you are. Your passion, your heart, your empathy, your dreams, your smile, your laughter, even tears. All gone. How do you fight for yourself if you don’t even know where you are? Or what you are?
But I’ll call out anyway. Somewhere in the ether I must be hiding. ‘Come out Lizzie. It’s ok’.
Did I hear a rustle, see a dim twinkle? Maybe. Maybe if I wait long enough, hoping, she may appear. Because I miss her. She’s my best friend and I miss her.