Oh How I Hate That Word

We think we know you.
We judge you prematurely.
For you are Brie, the Brie we have known for almost six years. Forever thin, forever starving yourself. In our minds, you will never be any different. But I protest, my voice shaking with emotion that I am eating, that I am recovering. “I find that hard to believe,” you state, “at your weight. I don’t believe you.”

And I weep. And weep some more. I cry because I can never get away from who I was, from the hollow, broken down shell of a person that I used to be. I cry because I want to be different, I yearn to be human and flawed and beautiful and honest, but instead you condemn me in your minds as the forever liar, the forever anorectic.

I’m crying now, crying so hard that it hurts in my stomach and in my ribs and in my lungs. I cannot talk and I cannot breathe. “Please hold on,” I try to say, but you only hear sobs and gulps for air. “Please, please give me a second chance. I need help. I want to gain weight. Please, I need help.”

“We can’t help you. You’ve used your chances.”

I desire nothing more than to defend myself, to enlighten you to the fierce, brave, and unique spirit that I am now. But you give me no chance for a reply, for in your mind, they are excuses, nothing more.
Because I will always be nothing but an eating disorder. Anorexic.

Oh how I hate that word.