I think what frustrates me the most often (maybe the most, definitely the most often) is just how limited I feel style wise. The style I like, the clothes I like, are not made for my body. Do I dress my body well? Yes. I do. I can say with confidence that I generally look good with how I put myself together. But there are a LOT of things I really wish I could wear that I can’t because, primarily, they don’t flatter my legs.
![sickly-thin:
“Hospital was the most horrific experience I have ever endured. Those people, the smells, the bitter, endless loneliness, the restrictions, the pain, tests, prodding and poking- medical students coming in and gawking at you like some fucking lab rat. Standing a metre away from you and discussing you, your existence and your most intimate, personal details as “The patient…”, “She…”, “The subject…” Not a person. Just another chapter in a textbook. Another page to study, and then at the end of the day, another book to close, as they all went home and left me- this “patient”, this inhuman thing to rot and fester in that single bedroom, with them watching me eat, watching me bathe, use the toilet- restricting me to even set one foot on the floor without supervision.
Maybe someone reading this might see what it really feels like to be here and benefit from it… that Anorexia Nervosa isn’t Nicole Richie running along a fucking beach in a pair of saggy bathers… it isn’t fame and fortune, popularity… it isn’t cool or fun or a matter of simply skipping a few meals… it is an all-consuming, black void… an unwaking nightmare… a suffocating, spiralling, endless cycle of bitter loneliness, agony and self-loathing. […]And it kills you. Inside. Outside. All-through.”](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ln3l6dC6TE1qg4z24o1_500.jpg)
“Hospital was the most horrific experience I have ever endured. Those people, the smells, the bitter, endless loneliness, the restrictions, the pain, tests, prodding and poking- medical students coming in and gawking at you like some fucking lab rat. Standing a metre away from you and discussing you, your existence and your most intimate, personal details as “The patient…”, “She…”, “The subject…” Not a person. Just another chapter in a textbook. Another page to study, and then at the end of the day, another book to close, as they all went home and left me- this “patient”, this inhuman thing to rot and fester in that single bedroom, with them watching me eat, watching me bathe, use the toilet- restricting me to even set one foot on the floor without supervision.
Maybe someone reading this might see what it really feels like to be here and benefit from it… that Anorexia Nervosa isn’t Nicole Richie running along a fucking beach in a pair of saggy bathers… it isn’t fame and fortune, popularity… it isn’t cool or fun or a matter of simply skipping a few meals… it is an all-consuming, black void… an unwaking nightmare… a suffocating, spiralling, endless cycle of bitter loneliness, agony and self-loathing. […]
And it kills you. Inside. Outside. All-through.”
