Underneath my clothes

This project is constantly challenging me, especially on days like today. There are days when the lies in my head are just too much and it is so hard to hear the truth. All weekend the mister has been telling me the truth and because I have this stupid illness I can’t accept that it is true.

The point of this whole thing is that I give myself a little break, some grace, that I stop beating myself up, which is sadly my default. Sadly my default is getting worse at the moment.

At the moment I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror.

It’s not about my face, deep down I know that it is an acceptable face. Heck it’s even a nice face.

The problem is, I’m fat.

This is the point where everyone who knows me or has ever seen me will take a moment to mentally slap me.

Because, even though I don’t believe it, and it’s certainly not what I see when I look in the mirror, the reality is I’m a size 8/10. My face is so thin I look a little bit like a heroin addict. Most of my clothes are too big for me and I have definitely gone down a cup size or two. I have a thigh gap, boney hips and weigh under 9 1/2 stone (I’m not allowed scales so that is a guesstimate.) In my adult life I’ve never been so small.

I have had to come to terms in the last few months that as well as all my other issues and mental health problems I have an eating disorder. That my brain does not see my body the way it actually is. I feel guilty because I ate mac and cheese tonight, I have to fight the urge to purge. I have to fight the urge to not eat for the next few days because I’m terrified that I am this hideous fat blob.

I’m not sizest, I promise, I think the human body is beautiful whatever size or shape. I think some of the most beautiful woman in the world are the ones with real curves and full figures. I have fought so hard to encourage my little sisters to be happy with their bodies, to not be ashamed of having a little big of chub.

Whatever size you are,




size doesn’t define you.

Unless, well unless you are me. I don’t even think my size makes me successful.

I just hate myself and am finding anyway possible to punish myself.

But the truth, what Jamie tells me every day. The truth that I don’t really believe.

The truth that more than anything I WANT to believe is this;

I am not fat.

I am not some hideous blob.

But I am beautiful, and not just because I’m super nice. But because my parents genetics have worked in my favour.


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