A year ago, I was 20 pounds lighter.

I ate significantly less. I did not ever indulge.

I painfully starved. Purged. Binged. Purged. Starved. Avoided food.

My anxiety put my stomach in knots so tight. My depression turned it all to ash.

The voices were louder. So loud. They ruled my life. I had a poison with no remedy. No relief.

Then, I got better. My partner held me. Loved me through the dark. Stroked my hair and held my hand. Always unwavering.

I ate. Once. Then twice a day. It didn’t hurt. I did more. We had food adventures. It was bliss.

A month ago, I noticed it.

I was larger. My bras didn’t fit. My pants were unpleasant. Shirts hugged me in a strange way. Curious, I jumped on the scale. . .

And froze.

The world sank.

Static.

The voices I had not heard sprang forward. Eager to pierce me with their fangs. Drag me back.

I relapsed.

I fell back.

I cried over the toilet bowl. Say against the tiled wall. I felt the girl try to climb out of the grave.

Ana and Mia giggled. Pointed at me. I was pathetic. So pathetic.

I was miserable. I tried to hide it. Joked about it. Everything.

My partner felt the change. He waited. Waited. Waited.

Until I broke.

He caught me. Held me. Comforted me.

Talking to him about it provided me some relief. He offered support to get me where I desired. So much support.

Greedily, I took it.

Now, I’m lost.

I have the desire to loose the weight I gained. But in a healthy fashion. Never have I done this.