Healing taught me that sometimes hunger isn’t about food at all.
I was always jealous of people who just order food and eat it.
No overthinking. No guilt. Just a bite, and life goes on.
I’m trying to heal my relationship with food — but it’s still a love-hate thing.
· · ·
Today I made a toast.
Put it on my plate.
Smelled the warm scent of ham and cheese — and in that moment, my mind started to spin.
What if the man I like doesn’t like me back because I’m not skinny enough?
His ex looked like a model.
What if he writes after I eat — and I can’t go, because I’ll feel bloated and fat?
What if he doesn’t text me at all — as punishment for that toast?
What if no one ever likes me because of it?
· · ·
Sometimes I wonder if he’s really as powerful as I make him out to be.
Can one toast really decide my whole future?
Maybe not.
But what if it’s never just one?
· · ·
Is food just nutrition and fuel for the body?
Or is it this powerful tool to control everything around us?
It depends.
Will you choose to control food, or will food control you?
But then again — should food even be associated with the word control?
· · ·
I don’t know.
Sometimes I control the food.
Sometimes, it controls me.
And maybe it’s not even his fault that no one wants to love me.
· · ·
People say: You need to love yourself first.
Well, I do.
I just sometimes feel like skinny girls have more of a chance to be loved by somebody else.
No — that sounds mean.
I don’t mean it that way.
Maybe I should say: girls as broken, with as much baggage as me.
I believe I’d have a chance for someone to love me at least for my body —
more than anyone will ever love me for me.
· · ·
And the sad part is — when I was half-dead, skin and bones,
always hungry but refusing to eat — people did love me for my body.
I gave up.
I wanted to live.
So I ate.
Gained some kilos.
And now no one loves me — not for me, not for my body.
· · ·
Should I be healthy, trying to love the reflection in my mirror,
buy new clothes, and hope someone will one day see what’s in my heart?
Because I cover my scars with clothes,
but I wear hurt as my t-shirt,
sadness as my jeans,
remorse as my shoes,
and sometimes anger as my jacket.
But in my heart — it’s just pure love.
· · ·
Maybe that’s what hunger really is —
not for food, but for love.
· · ·
So should I wait and hope?
Or should I strip down, refuse to eat again,
and dress up in this barbie mini sparkling dress,
hoping no one sees the scars and bruises behind the shine?
I don’t know.
But I hope one day I will love myself enough
that even those thoughts disappear.
