Love, Me
Shopaholics, 'Love, Me' isn't so much a complimentary letter close but rather an anecdote of the love that was me. I've lost many tangible and intangible external things over the years, however, what is spoken of less, is the loss of the pieces of the internal me that broke away alongside my decaying shell. To state that this illness is simply a medical problem would be a profound misinterpretation. This illness' declination should be measured by the dying love for its prisoner, their family & friends. So, Dolls, do you think that after 'Love, Me', l will still love me?
The formative ages are the ages where one begins to truly form their personal identity and expose their newfound personality, quirks and characteristics to the big, wide world. Perhaps discovering who you truly are is daunting to some, even many, but it's not until you lose your ability to know who you truly are that you mourn its loss and crave what once was and what could've been. There were always many things that I instinctively knew about who I was... I was kind, I did what I felt was right and I thought and acted creatively. But the occasions occurring throughout those formative years such as travel, parties, celebrations & dinners were occasions that anorexia restricted me from. Either I was late because I ate beforehand, I was preoccupied with food because I didn't eat or I wasn't invited because I was too sick. And if I was involved in those occasions, I couldn't relish in the spectacular moments that come with the freedom to be present like the beauty of a stranger's smile, the joy of partaking in directionless conversation or dancing with energy to your favourite song alongside your best friend. All of these things, paired with a brain becoming increasingly malnourished, resulted in a person who lost. Lost excitement, lost their voice, lost their smile, lost fascination. And all of the opportunities they had to discover and develop their personality eroded like disintegrating paper at the core of a burning fire until all that was left was the smoke that faintly smelt of melted ink.
Perhaps one of the most exquisite aspects of humankind is our ability to love. Family is bound together by bloodlines but friendships are bound by a consistent mutual choice. Being raised an only child, not only were kids relatively absent from my life, but an adult's world was mine. My mother expected me to engage in and hold conversations, think inquisitively and manage my emotions. We were and still are best friends. As a result, I matured young and my friendships were fostered with those who valued compassion over gossip and conversations over barbie dolls. At most ages, those people are few and far between, so I always had a small, close group of friends separated from my all-time best friends - my mum & dad. But everything slowly, yet rapidly changed as I grew ill. The spaces between visits with my friends grew longer as they became more unsure of what to say, I lost the capacity to think with clarity and they became afraid of my appearance which appeared increasingly sick. Although my friendships were few, they were the sisters and brothers I'd never had. I relied on them, believed in them and cherished their entire being. The fallout of a love like this was nothing short of painful and I couldn't help but allow the absence of the love that they'd provided me with affect the little love I managed to show myself. My self-confidence, security and hope were surely depleted.
Anyone can look out a window, Dolls, and see a grey sky, parked cars, a field of grass, leaves blowing to the wind and a winding pathway but isn't it the people who see a playground to dance in, birds to sing harmonies with and people to become friends with who live a life that is more fulfiling, exciting and happy? Those people have one thing many lose along the way, one thing called passion. Just as eating disorders rob personalities, they rob their victims of the ability to focus on goals, feel emotions with intensity (instead the opposite numbing effect takes place) and feel enjoyment from their favourite activities, occasions or hobbies.
For example, I used to adore music and when I went to play the piano, sing or write a song, it was done with focus and a heart bleeding with love. Now, my mind is clouded with the distraction of my evil twin flame called anorexia and the numbness of my emotions blocks the passion that was once inherently mine. Whether the passion that is lost is for sauting out a scholarship to Harvard, dancing ballet, having children, creating art or making the Olympics, losing passion is losing everything that makes living a beautifully exceptional experience. What could be more heartbreakingly melancholic than living a life without life?
As always, Dolls, I leave you with hope and it isn't because I have an abundance of it to provide. Heck, I haven't any belonging to me in the first place. But I can leave it with you because that is what is most special about hope - you don't need to have it in the present because it belongs in the future. And Dolls, in the future it will be. It will be there waiting to hold your hand as you pick up the guitar that's been waiting to sing for you, as you swim in the ocean that's been desperately still or cradle wet clay on the lonely spinning wheel that's webbed in spider's silk.
Kisses,
COS x
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