Part of me feels irrationally angry at the people around me who told me it was okay to relax, and eat, and stop worrying about all of this. I did all those things, and it wasn't ok. Now I'm like this and I think I'll never fix it. But the tiny rational part of my brain knows that it's not anyone else's fault. It may feel like they tricked me, but I need to remember they didn't do it on purpose. They just didn't understand what would happen and why it would be such an awful, awful thing.
They tell me I'm fine, that I can stay like this, that this looks good. A holds me tightly against him and tells me, "but you're so beautiful to me", and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine what it is that he sees, what it is that I'm missing.
Some people have real problems; illnesses and family dramas and aloneness and financial difficulties. My life is idyllic. And I wonder if what I'm missing, more than a tiny tiny waist, is gratefulness. And I wonder where one acquires such a thing.