by MB

I wonder what people notice about  me when they meet me for the first time. For so long, it was my body. It was different. But what now? How do I seperate that person from this one? How do I mourn her and apologize for her and also put her to rest?

As much as I want to open myself to you, I am overwhelmingly afraid of your reaction. That you'll think differently of me. That I won't know what you will think, or how to read you. That I'll say the wrong thing.

I'm homesick for the idea of home. For a place to cry and a room for my soul to rest. For that sweatshirt that smells like your high school boyfriend, your Dad's favorite marathon shirt, the way the third stair creaks if you step on it in exactly the right place. For the person that assures you that it will all be ok, that it too, will pass. For Sunday night dinner where nothing happened but everything mattered. For apple crisp and hand-churned ice cream. That feeling when you realize that in the six months you've been gone,  your parents have aged.

I wish other peoples' opinions of me motivated me to stay this miserable and thin and unhappy.

I'm worried I was never really thin enough to begin with. That I still have something to prove. That people will pity me when they see me, for the control I had but relinqished, for the thinness that I discarded, seeking to fill its void with present and content.

I fear that recovery makes me ordinary.