In My Skin

My closet is a map of the various events in my life. Each article of clothing tells a story. It tells a story of my struggle with food, of my struggle with my changing body, and it tells a story of my struggle with trying to accept my body. I used to have favorite go-to outfits. I used to look inside my closet and know what would comfort me, what would feel good on my skin, what I could put on and feel almost adequate in. But nothing comforts me anymore. The feeling of wanting to be anywhere but in your own skin, to search your closet over and over for something to comfort you, to find nothing in return; it’s a lonely, stark, empty feeling.

The problem with each and every single one of these outfits is they tell a story. I remember the story- like a bad break-up they have baggage. I can’t forget the feelings I have felt in each outfit. Through the stages of my distorted eating, through the stages of my eating disorder, through the stages of my recovery. Weight gain is just one small piece, but to these clothes, to this break-up, the weight gain is too much, the body I now bear is unbearable, and the skin doesn’t feel like my own.

I remember the story of the pale pink baggy sweater. I bought while in treatment to hide my weight gain, to hide how my body was changing. It used to be baggy, covering my thighs, covering my hips, covering the distribution of weight that went right to my stomach. Now the soft pale pink sweater hits sharply at my hips, tighter than usual, uncomfortable knowing it used to fit differently. It used to comfort me differently, it used to serve a purpose.

I remember the story of the green jeans. I bought after being kicked out of treatment the first time, I thought all I had was my eating disorder and all I needed was my eating disorder. The day bleach accidentally stained those jeans I cried uncontrollably on my bathroom floor. Too scared to buy another pair of jeans, too scared to go into a store to buy another pair of jeans, too scared I would never fit into another pair of jeans. Those stupid green jeans don’t even fit past my thighs anymore. Those stupid green jeans are useless fabric that once covered my frail, sick body, and now bleach stain and all they lie at the bottom of my closet.

My closet tells the vicious cycle of my eating disorder and what lies below the weight, the food, the image of an eating disorder. Every piece of clothing I put on reminds me how things used to be. How things used to fit. How things used to feel. How things used to be when I used the eating disorder to cope with my feelings of adequacy. Nothing gives me comfort because while I’m far along in recovery, I have not mastered being 100% comfortable in my own skin. I have not mastered feeling adequate. I don’t want what used to be, because what used to be never gave me comfort in myself. And until I master comfort in myself, or comfort in my skin- no clothing in the world will help me feel adequate. And personally we all deserve more than adequate.