I did it. I made mujadra, which is spelled so many ways that I’m not even going to bother to list them all. I’ve been meaning to for awhile. It’s really not that hard. Lentils, bulgur, onions, oil, spices. How hard is that?

I guess I just never got around to it. There’s a lot of things I never get around to. I saw a book while I was at Kroger yesterday: Wintergirls by the same lady who wrote Speak. I want to read it, but I’ll probably never get around to it.

It’s yet another book about eating disorders. Anorexia, just like me. When I read the summary, it made me yearn for those days when there was a space between my thighs. Isn’t that odd?

I still don’t have my period. Doctors ask me if I want it: “I still don’t have a period,” I say. “Well, do you want a period?” they reply. I always say yes, but it’s a mechanical yes, much like the lies I used to tell when I was thin: “I ate before coming,” “I’m not hungry,” “I hate nuts”.

Period: such an interesting word. Periods mark an ending, the ending of a complete thought, of a menstrual cycle, of a space in time. But periods are not the end-they’re not paragraphs or pages or novels. No, periods are somewhere inbetween. A little bit like I’m inbetween beautiful and ugly, thin and fat, anorexic and bulimic. Do you ever think about how many inbetweens there are in life?

Deep down, I feel like not having a period keeps me in this “inbetween” where I can be anorexic, where there’s still a chance for me to go back to the times when I was happy. Was I happy? I can’t even remember now. I must have been at least a little happy, if only for a few moments. I’ve gained all this weight and lost all those moments.

And I think that, all along, when I was gaining weight, I was tricked into believing that the food would make me happy. That being “healthy” again would make me happy. But we are never healthy unless we are happy and, now, I am neither.

Please, just let me be beautiful again.



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