Remember when I wrote that I could love myself and what I ate for one week? Well, I was wrong. I couldn't. It's too big a life pattern to love right now.
I realised, in my avoidance of loving what is, that food is not just nourishment for me. It's fear, pain, comfort, anger and rebellion.
My body isn't just a means of being in the world. It is a failure. Every time I look at it, I do so to criticise it. It fills me with shame and a sense of failure.
All of these emotions have been with me for decades. Many of my earliest memories are of comments about being a 'big girl', of needing to curb my appetite... of seeing my brothers eat anything and remain as stick insects, of feeling I had failed my very petite mother by being so big.
So I'm not really at a point where I can love all that yet. But I can accept it. I own it consciously now. I even understand that it's not 'reality', just one version of reality.
It's a small step on the path of healing.
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