When I promised them I was getting better, I wasn’t lying. I am getting better. Food doesn’t lodge itself venomously in my throat like it used to, and calories and calculations don’t swim before my eyes anymore. I can face mirrors and have learnt to ignore most of the screaming taunts from my mind; the urge to shatter my mocking reflection into a thousand tiny pieces is mostly gone. I’m learning to ignore the judging eyes and smirks that play upon muttering lips as I pass by, and snide little comments are beginning to hurt me a lot less than they used to. I’m finding my feet and picking myself up again, and I am getting better, promise.
But sometimes, when I look behind me to where I used to be, temptation grabs me like a rope clutched around the neck and pulls me backwards, and suddenly it seems okay to make excuses and ‘forget’. Suddenly the mirror wailing out my flaws for the world to hear seems like almost like an old friend, helping me find perfection by pointing out the imperfection. And in the depths of my wildest thoughts, I can’t help but cave in to the pleasure of wrapping my arms around my body in the cold air, rubbing fingers across flesh and feeling the ridges of bones protruding where they really shouldn’t. And in those moments, I can hear a distant crack that sounds vaguely like a cry into the darkness or the slow breaking of an innocent heart, the gentle wail of a promise slowly breaking.