A poem by Rousseau Duclos
Content Note: depression, EDNOS, eating disorders, mental illness, self-hatred
My disorder is just that, it’s a disorder,
a realm of chaos and confusion and hatred,
of a mind that can’t quite grasp why but can’t stop either.
My disorder is not a teenage girl with tiny thighs
and a flat stomach, with a bright, clear smile and shining eyes too,
and pale, smooth skin that glistens in the daylight.
My disorder is not a little girl with frail bones and a miniscule waist,
one that excuses herself after every meal but who returns to the table with
breath that smells like peppermints,
or who eats celery and lettuce for dinner, seemingly immune to desire.
My disorder is not your girlfriend, who never lets a single morsel pass through her lips,
but whose stomach is always gurgle-free, or the girl with perfect grades
and shiny, long blonde hair that rests down her back,
a whispered “You could save me.”
My disorder is not a speedy recovery, only one relapse and it’s not even gruesome,
with a handsome man at her side and love in the air and, Wow, wasn’t that so easy?
or midnight sex with hands running over her body, which
is still rail-thin even though she can’t stop saying how much she’s recovered.
My disorder is not love or perfection or anything remotely pleasant,
because that is a lie, perfection doesn’t exist,
and no human can survive on celery and lettuce alone.
My disorder is tears and crying and therapy sessions and hospitalizations,
desperate for help
and also consumed with the belief that nothing is wrong.
My disorder is worried parents and family meals,
just to make sure that you’re actually eating, and then bathroom doors
locked from the outside because the sound of vomiting was heard once too often.
My disorder is not beauty; it is death,
with stringy hair that crumbles in your fingertips,
yellowing teeth, and an overwhelming desire to die, or maybe
to just stop feeling everything for a moment.
My disorder is just a form of prolonged suicide,
because, without end, that’s the inevitable outcome,
an emaciated corpse that was apparently never skinny enough, even in her grave.
My disorder is not just teenage white girls, with money and friends;
it’s people in every single walk of life, of all races, all ages, all genders,
every single social stance imaginable, people with jobs or in school,
with so much potential for growth but who are forced to decay.
My disorder is never just a new weight-loss program,
and that exercise isn’t about getting healthy or being fit,
it’s about making yourself so small you disappear completely.
My disorder is, “Oh, wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight, but it looks great!”
and me clenching my teeth, because can’t you tell that for the past four weeks,
my mind has only daydreamed about the icing on your lips and the slice of bread in your hands
My disorder isn’t health, and will never be health,
it’s “fruit has too many carbs” and eating no vitamins whatsoever,
because what about the bloating?
My disorder is self-hatred, and it isn’t a choice,
it’s never been a choice, because who would chose that?
And it will never make sense.
My disorder is all of the evil and cruelty,
inflicted upon myself, and it isn’t logical,
because it’s a mental illness, brought on by a chemical imbalance in my brain.
My disorder is all the distrust I’ve ever seen in my mother’s eyes,
but it isn’t me, because I am a human being, worthy of every possibility,
and it is only my disorder that deserves to die.
My recovery is a lot of hard work, therapy sessions and a new cocktail of medications,
and sometimes it feels like it’ll never be over,
and maybe it won’t, but in the meantime, I can spend my nights thinking about a day
when I can let you run your hands over my body and not want to shrink away,
when I can run and dance because I love it and it makes me feel good, not to burn calories,
when I can finally love myself and, in turn, eventually love you too,
when I can look back without fear and see all my growth and be amazed at the pure beauty of me,
when I can raise a child and teach them to love themselves and love others too,
when I finally am free.
So, that day is not here yet, and so far the road to strength seems long and winding,
but that doesn’t matter, not now, not ever,
because I’ve come to the realization that
you deserve only the best in life,
I deserve only the best in life,
only the most love and compassion and everything you thought was cheesy as a child.
I’m going to fight to make this life the best one imaginable.