I really have to be strong now. Because it’s my turn to be discharged.
They told me this morning. We’d just finished art therapy and I had colored chalk all over my black yoga pants. I’m basically only wearing yoga pants now. Those and leggings. Anything with an elastic waistband. That way I don’t have to suck in my stomach while I try to fasten a button that doesn’t want to be fastened. I don’t have to feel the rough fabric of jeans rubbing against my oversize thighs. I don’t have to think about the concept of skinny jeans.
I still miss my skinny jeans. I miss a lot about before, but I’m trying to remember that I’ll be getting so much more in the future.
Now the future is a lot closer than I thought it’d be.
The doctor in charge of the program told me I’m not leaving because of insurance. I’m not leaving because I got in trouble. I’m leaving because they think I’m better.
Better.
It’s a single word, but it holds a dictionary full of meanings:
Better means I don’t worry about my weight.
Better means I don’t worry about Talia making fun of me.
Better means I don’t worry at all.
I worry all the time. So how can I be better?
Willow said it’s okay to worry. She said my fears are perfectly normal and I’m still on a journey. It feels like I’ve been on a journey forever, but I guess she’s right. I may have to travel further, but at least I’ve started.
I keep trying to wipe the chalk off my pants, but it’s not all going away. It’s smudged in there, a faint cloud against the black fabric. There’s a snag in the fabric, too, one I’m picking at every few seconds. The thread is unraveling. Now there’s a hole.
I’ve worn these pants a lot. I probably need new ones. I probably need a whole new wardrobe. Clothes to fit my new body.
Clothes to fit the new me.