I am nostalgic.

I am nostalgic.

I came across this poem that I wrote five months ago — I hon­est­ly com­plete­ly for­got I had writ­ten it. Every word of it rings true to me tonight. It’s hard. But I’m shar­ing it, send­ing it into the void. I’m not sure why.

Con­tent note: talk of seri­ous depres­sion and dis­or­dered eat­ing.


I am nos­tal­gic for a time
when peo­ple would say
“this place wouldn’t be the same
with­out you”
when I could have intense con­ver­sa­tions
with every­one I knew
and peo­ple didn’t aban­don me
because of my beliefs.
I am nos­tal­gic for belong­ing.

I am nos­tal­gic for a time
when my depres­sion was cod­ed
“depth of char­ac­ter”
and not weak­ness of will
when my anx­i­ety was a secret
and I could push through it all
for months on end.
I am nos­tal­gic for appear­ances.

I am nos­tal­gic for a time
when peo­ple swooned for my curls
and com­pli­ment­ed my curves
but only when I lost weight
when my clothes hung on my body
and my smile wore thin
and I only ate every oth­er day.
I am nos­tal­gic for “beau­ty.”

I have roman­ti­cized
every forced smile
every skipped meal
every sub­mis­sion to the will of oth­er peo­ple
every detach­ment from
every emo­tion
for most of my life.
I have demo­nized the real­i­ties
by call­ing them “break­downs”
by call­ing them “flukes”
by apol­o­giz­ing for tak­ing up
space and time
and mak­ing any­one notice
that I was actu­al­ly in pain.

I am nos­tal­gic for belong­ing
no mat­ter the cost.

Posted in Fat Girl,