Dear Anorexia,

I never hated you. I should- rationally, I know I should. My mum definitely hates you, she’s cried over you, over what you’ve done to me, or I suppose, what I’ve done to her. Upsetting her.

Because let’s both admit, I did this to myself. I’d love to pretend that I was possessed by the evil demon of disordered eating; a curse that warped my thinking within an instant. But that’s not how it happened, is it? I did this to myself, no matter how much I try to distance myself from the monster that you are.

But here’s the thing- that fact, that realisation? That’s the thing that makes it easier to fight you. You’re not a terrifying demon lurking outside my room and trying to break down my door; you’re an annoying little goblin living inside my head, and that means that I’m in charge here.

I used to think that anorexia was the only thing that gave me control of anything, but it really wasn’t. Yes, I weighed my cereal to a decimal of a gram, and I counted every single calorie, even in gum, but that wasn’t control. That was fixation, as well as far too much maths considering how bad I was at it during my GCSEs. It was comforting, but not exactly comfortable. More of a reassurance that I hadn’t broken my own rules, my own calorie limit.

So no, I never hated you, because I thought you were keeping me safe, keeping me happy, keeping me thin. But while I may have been the latter, I certainly wasn’t safe or happy, not truly.

I’ve rambled on for long enough now, so I’ll summarise my thoughts here. Gradually, I am learning how to hate you, and to hate everything you.

So go fuck yourself.