When I look in the mirror I can still see the twelve year old fat girl who tried too hard, every day after school, for weeks and weeks on end, to shove her fingers down her throat because I felt as if I was weighing down the world.
But with luck, nothing vile escaped my esophagus and would make me choke.
I can see the girl who hated herself and hated her body and thought that she didn't deserve love. Feeling worthless and as if my number on the scale determined the amount of self love I had.
It's a different story now. Four years later I know that even with my love handles and thick thighs, I am a person and I am human and I am wonderful the way I am.
But occasionally, the twelve year old comes out again and I feel like my stomach is caving in and I'm being eaten alive.
