To My Eating Disorder,
Consider this my “Dear John” letter. I believe it’s time for us to part ways.
It’s not you; it’s me.
You see, you are not the one at risk of losing everything. You thrive on loss, feeding off it, gaining strength as I diminish. The reality is that I am the one losing—losing connections, my sense of self, relationships, and even my purpose. I’m losing the person I once was, the potential I could achieve, and the person I deserve to become. I am ensnared by you because I have become lost in your grasp.
You don’t see the troubles reflected back at you in the mirror. Instead, you see opportunities to exploit. Each little imperfection becomes fuel for your irrational justifications, which dictate my actions. It’s me who allows my reflection to be distorted by your presence. It’s me who perceives the ugly because I feel it within myself. Wearing you is like donning a coat that no longer fits—too tight and restrictive, yet it continues to conceal me. I keep you zipped up to shield myself from feeling exposed.
You aren’t the one lying awake at night consumed by meaningless numbers. You are indifferent to such metrics; it’s me who fixates on every increase or decrease. I’ve warped the notion of “less is more” to measure my worth solely through loss. I add to your existence by subtracting from my own.
You don’t struggle to find joy in the laughter of children. You can’t search for happiness because you’ve never truly known it. You embody the void; it’s me who feels my soul withering away alongside my body. I allow fleeting, irreplaceable moments of motherhood to slip past me, like dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. They hover right in front of me, illuminated, yet I can’t reach them. I’ve become empty by allowing you to fill me.
You aren’t the one starving. You are fueled by my insecurity, anxiety, and insatiable need for control. You consume my weaknesses, strengthening your hold. I am the one who hungers—not for food, but for peace, self-acceptance, and genuine companionship. I long for the sweet taste of the cupcakes I baked with my children today. Yet, I continuously choose hunger over fulfillment, famine over family, you over me.
You don’t shed tears at night, hair matted to the pillow with sorrow, vowing that tomorrow will bring change. You don’t awaken defeated, knowing that nothing will alter. You don’t despise what you’ve become.
But you aren’t the one who hears the word “Mama” as I groggily step out of bed. You don’t experience the joyful tackle hugs from my children as I stand at the kitchen counter, pouring milk into sippy cups. You don’t flip pancakes while listening to my toddlers sing along to their favorite show. You don’t feel warmth inside when they call for “Toodles” to ask for help with their toys.
You aren’t there when my youngest offers me a pancake, asking if I want some. It’s in these moments that I realize—perhaps I deserve that pancake. Maybe I am worthy of hugs, imperfections and all. Maybe I deserve to laugh, to dance with my children, and to embrace the title of “Mama.” Perhaps I truly deserve better. And those two wonderful boys who made me a mother absolutely do.
No, Eating Disorder, you are not the one who deserves to continue living. You have nothing to live for outside of this toxic relationship.
It’s time for me to reclaim my life. I no longer need you.