my shiny, fancy, decadent rock bottom.

I thought my rock bottom would look like it once did— over a toilet, missing yet another get together, a bleeding throat, topped off with a pack of cigarettes. It’s hard to believe that that’s what my reality looked a mere five years ago. So I’m back in a complicated relationship with another addiction and so I thought— I have to get something great out of ten years of bulimia. Wisdom. An open third eye. A resurrection. And I did, a bit. But I misheard the voice for a while. The tiny little whisper that let me know that alcohol could lead to the same path. I wrote about it. I was open about it. Real cute on the whole matter. “I haven’t hit rock bottom yet, but I know I could, so this is all preventative!”

I thought rock bottom would look like lots of missed phones calls from my closest friends, waking up in strange beds, wrecking my relationship, calling home to cry to my estranged brother at 4AM in the morning. I thought rock bottom would mean showing up to the Writers’ Room with two bottles of champagne in my belly, looking forward to the third when we let out. So I thought I just hadn’t. Hit rock bottom, that is. I don’t do that. So I must still be fine. This is fine! I’m fine. Totally in control.

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“Sorry I can’t go, I’m fat.”

Last summer I was 20 pounds lighter. I think, I don’t weigh myself, my pants told me so, maybe 30.  Yikes. I had gone through both a romantic and a professional breakup and while I was more miserable than I ever remember being, the former anorexic in me always welcomes these bouts. Take up less space! God forbid people see you through your failed attempt at love! And, well, thinner is the winner! So fuck that guy! It’s the revenge body situation, the I’m thin and so the narrative here is that I have my life together. Unless I’m Ashley Graham. She’s the only big thighed woman with her life together. Right?

I thought it would be different in my twenties. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. At least late twenties. I thought I would arrive at a place where my big azz thighs would genuinely make me proud and any fluctuation would be welcomed. Or that I would stop fluctuating all together. I do so much un-learning, after all.  My shelves are filled with Deepak, and Marianne, and Gabby, and Thich, and Jesus himself. I dig and I make lists, and I text, and share, and call, and pray, and meditate, and record and affirm. But when I tell you that my world falls apart when I look at a picture of me as I am today? I’m paralyzed. I’m supposed to have all the tools. I have all the tools. I know what to do. What’s that mantra again? I just. I must not be getting it.

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