There was a Pizza Hut on my way back from dance. I used to walk past it almost every night. I’d press my face against the window and gaze at the cloud-like crusts, the buttery garlic bread, the golden oil glittering atop the cheese. I could smell the salt, the tiny granules dancing inside my nose, and I could taste the tomato sauce, the lightly sautéed veggies, the… “You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 42 kg.” I told myself, lurching away. “You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 42 kg.”
“You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 41 kg.”
“You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 40 kg.”
“You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 39 kg.”
The number kept getting lower and lower, and by the time I got to 38 kg, I finally realized I would not be going to Pizza Hut. I would never be thin enough, and if I ever was my metabolism would’ve slowed down too much to handle it. One bite of that cheesy, greasy pizza, and I’d gain back all the weight I’d worked so hard to lose.
So I just kept walking. I shouldn’t even look at it, I decided, then I would go in, and I couldn’t have that. So I just kept walking.
There’s a Pizza Hut on my way back from dance. I walk past it almost every night. I used to press my face against the window, and stare at the salad bar, the white bowls of crispy lettuce, the swirling spirals of the pasta, the red, ripe tomatoes. I used to stand outside and smell the food, and I used to imagine myself eating it, what it would taste like, what it would feel like sliding down my throat…
“You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 42 kg.” I used to tell myself. I still hear those words in my head. I still see those words in my mind. I still feel those words in my brain.
So I decide I’ll go someday. I should, shouldn’t I? It would be a crucial step in my recovery. I could even write a blog post about it! So I decide I’ll go someday.
There’s a Pizza Hut on my way back from dance. I’m walking past it right now. I look in the window, and I glance at the menu, the appetizers, the drinks, the mains, the desserts. I turn to my friends, and I nod, and I smile, and I open the door, and I put one foot in front of the other, and I take that step.
“You can go to Pizza Hut when you weigh 42 kg.” My eating disorder used to tell me. I can’t help but think about those words; I can’t help but remember that world. It was my life for a very long time, a very long time ago.
But here I am at Pizza Hut, weighing a whole lot more than 42 kg, about to enjoy a veggie pizza with a side of fries. I never thought I’d get here, but here I am; here I am at Pizza Hut.