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A Letter to My Eating Disorder: I Hate You

The texture of it is the shock between too hot and too cold. An uncomfortable burn that is numbing at times, in constant fluctuation and never progressing. A torture device used to make every moment a rebellion or a loathing, so goddamn powerful that sometimes you look in the mirror and don’t even know that it’s you, so you look to others to define it— and they always get it wrong. That’s what it’s like for me to hate my body. I’ve walked down the street and felt like I was in water. But not the calm kind of water where you find peace, the pressurized kind that pricks your skin in a way that makes you always want to...

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