Dear Wigleaf,

It's been six years since I stopped starving myself, and all the traditional forms of celebration seem inappropriate. There are no cards that say: "Congrats! You're Eating Again!" Champagne is too festive; gifts are too guilt-filled (do I deserve to open a present, having learned what I should have learned from birth?). If you have any ideas for a re-hungering party, let me know. I'll keep brainstorming when no one else is home, a cup of tea in my hands, those old pants in my hands, the only pair I haven't been able to throw out. I haven't kept them because I'm hoping they'll still fit; I've kept them because I'm afraid of forgetting. They're evidence of a body that wasn't my body, evidence of a time I defied the laws of nature. I've been so happy, I keep forgetting that my hunger had a shape. I think that's the last step in healing: allowing the memory to quiet. Learning to trust that my body will remember it all, anyways.


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Read her short.

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