About three sentences into my preachy post on self-love, I realised I had absolutely no clue what I was talking about. I cannot seriously tell you that you’re a magical rainbow unicorn who deserves to love yourself unconditionally. I don’t think your tummy rolls and toenails are the quintessence of radiance, and I have absolutely no intention to inundate you with saccharine Tumblr-sourced affirmations. I’m not going to tell you what I know you you want to hear; I’m going to tell you what I think you need to hear:
So, are you fucking insane? What are you thinking? Do you know what you’re doing? You are killing yourself. You are doing irreversible damage to your body. You are torturing the people who care about you. You are destroying any chance you have at your dreams. Why? You want to be thin. You think it’ll make you happy; you think it’ll solve all your problems.
I promise you it won’t. Chances are, you won’t even reach that obscenely low goal weight; you’ll get caught up in a vicious binge-purge cycle and rip your esophagus in two or suffer a lethal cardiac arrest. Pray that you do, ’cause losing forty pounds or whatever is much, much worse. You’re going be more miserable than you’ve ever been; you’ll wish you were dead, and darling, you will be, if you–when you–lose those ‘last ten pounds.’
Get your shit together. Move on. Snap out of it. RECOVER. It’s not just #thisorhospital; it’s this or death, and trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to die. Please, please choose recovery; choose it today and choose it everyday. It is not just the right choice; it is the only choice.