Every once in awhile I take a step back and marvel at how far I've come in the last seven years. There's truly no doubt in my mind that miracles happen.
Nine and a half years ago, I was sitting in an Eating Disorders Anonymous meeting (I have to mention, I neither had any interest in attending that meeting nor any motivation to get well at the time). I was wearing a short skirt and sitting unaccompanied in the back row. Somehow I had managed to get my hands on a sharp object. As the participants shared their struggles, I carved a symbol into my upper thigh. It was a symbol of my own creation, a single letter that, when looked at from different angles, spelled the word "FAT."
I still have that scar, white and imposing against my tan skin. A reminder, every time I'm unclothed, of how much I hated myself. It wasn't enough to declare myself fat, or even to slice open my own body; I actually branded myself. That kind of self-violence is appalling to me now, and when I look at that scar, I can scarcely believe I was the person who put it there.
There are many scars on my body I would like to get removed someday; some that I put there, some put there by others. But that "FAT" scar, disturbing and sad as it is, will stay forever. Whenever I look at it, I am reminded of just how far I've come.
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