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.
- - -
Read her short.
W i g l e a f