The question isn't "what are we going to do," the question is "what aren't we going to do?"
Titania, 16, Canada. Born and raised a hippie. Madly in love. Pieced together by a world of friends, art, family, and my boyfriend. Painting is my passion beyond all other things. Recovering anorexic, along with many other things. I'm fucked up, but I've been a lot more fucked in the past, so enjoy.
You didn’t just lose weight.
The weight was incomparable.
Incomparable to the hair,
The bone density and the passion.
Incomparable to the smile on your face and the glimmer in your eyes.
Totally irrelevant, in comparison to the nails and the teeth; even the nutrients in your blood slowly wasted away until your heart could barely beat.
That little heart kept fighting, for you, though.
It struggled on beat by beat and so should you.
Why? Because there’s no adulation in anorexia.
There’s no congratulations or looks of admiration. There are just blank stares from the people who once knew you, looking at your broken shell.
There’s no fucking medal or badge of honour. It’s not impressive.
But what is impressive? Standing tall, healthy and proud, saying ‘yes, I have anorexia nervosa. But it doesn’t have me anymore’.