MARIJE ELIZE
MARIJE ELIZE
INHOUD
INHOUD
MyStory
writtenby MarijeElize
A Quiet Kind of Power
A Secret Garden of Thor ns
They never tell you how beautiful it can look from the outside. How devotion can be mistaken for discipline. How suffering, dressed just right, begins to resemble strength The world applauds your control without seeing what it costs to keep it. And so you build it a secret garden.
Delicate. Ordered. Lush in its restraint. A spreadsheet instead of soil. Rituals instead of rain. Every rule carefully planted, every number pruned into place. From a distance, it looks soft. Gentle. Almost holy. A quiet kind of power.
But what they don’t see are the thorns. The way they catch on your skin when you reach for the next goal The way they pierce, slowly, invisibly, until you're bleeding in silence. You thought you were harvesting roses grace, control, admiration but you were only ever gathering pain.
That’s the illusion of it: the petals come f irst. The wounds come later. And by the time you realiz e you're not in control, you're already trapped inside something that looks a lot like beauty and feels a lot like dying.
This isn’t a garden. It’s a cage that blooms
Chapter Fifty-eight: The Fall (Again)
July 8
It begins not with a scream, but with a whisper. The kind that slips beneath the noise of ordinary life, curling like smoke into the corners of your mind A thought, small and delicate, laced in silk and steel: “You were better when you were empty.”
I heard it in the shower this morning. Steam curling around my shoulders, soap slipping through my fingers, the mirror too fogged to show what I was already seeing in my mind: softness, roundness, a body slipping out of control. I closed my eyes, pressed my forehead to the cold tile, and welcomed her back. An old 'friend'. An old war. Or maybe not an old one, just one who hadn't been heard from for a while. One who tried to reach me daily, but who I was too busy to answer. Too busy enjoying life, too busy with therapy to break up with that toxic friend in question, that friend I welcomed back, whilst pressing my forehead to the cold tile.
It’s not impulsive This is not chaos It is planning Precision Devotion, even A kind of devotion some say they dream of having, but this disease is not to be romanticized and to be dreamed of having. It's ugly, it's debilitating and above all deadly.
'This time, I am doing it right'. I sat at my small desk in Italy, wearing my faded grey Rolling Stones tshirt soft from age, stretched at the collar, the tongue logo barely visible anymore. It used to hang loose on me, years ago. Now it clings just slightly. Just enough to feel like failure. I opened my notebook. Not the one with work to-do lists. The real one. The one with scratched-out calories, old rituals, stains from tea I didn’t drink And I wrote:
I made a spreadsheet. I made it beautiful. Soft pastels. A column for weight. One for intake. One for movement. One for notes. I will track everything grams, minutes, mistakes, victories. I will weigh every morning before I speak to the world. Before I put on clothes. Before I drink water. And after I go to the bathroom.
It’s a quiet kind of power A secret garden with thorns The spreadsheet is made and I’ve set my rules:
No days over 800 kcal.
Only black coffee, green tea or water.
Walking: minimum 10,000 steps a day.
Dinner is optional. Guilt is not.
If you're hungry: chew gum, drink water, distract yourself. Hunger is not an emergency.
Never eat out of boredom. If you're bored, you walk. You clean. You write. You move.
Use small plates Child-size cutlery Everything looks bigger and more that way
Cut food into many small pieces More bites means more decisions, more guilt.
Eat slowly. The slower you eat, the faster you feel full. The longer you chew, the more surface area is exposed which helps you feel fuller, faster. First-year chemistry taught me that. Funny, who knew starvation had a syllabus? Out of all the things I forgot from high school, that one stuck. Go figure.
Always know the calories before you touch the food. No surprises. Eat alone. Public eating is weakness. Performance. A lie.
Drink at least 2 liters of water. It fills the space food would take.
Don’t start the day with food. Start it with control. Don't eat after 6 p.m. Digestion is for the disciplined
Weigh yourself at the same time every day Naked Empty Before the world gets in.
No "healthy" snacks. “Healthy”is just marketing for more. Track everything. If it’s not tracked, it didn’t happen. A dangerous game. If I break the rules, I make up for it. Immediately. Social events means food. They are traps. Cancel. Lie. Protect the ritual. When in doubt, subtract. Always subtract.
I know what you’ll say. That it’s not real control, that it’s illness in a pretty dress. But I’ve worn that dress before and it fits me better than anything else ever has.
You see, recovery is a lonely place. People applaud you for eating, like you’ve done a magic trick. But they don’t see how loud your brain gets. They don’t hear the mourning not just for the body you left behind, but for the person
I miss her.
The one who could say no to dinner parties. The one who found comfort in emptiness. The one who floated, always light, always contained. The one feeling light-headed, feeling most pretty when not doing well. I don’t want to disappear. Not completely. I just want to be small enough that the world feels far away again. Manageable. Quiet. My damn brain won't shut up until I starve.
I touched my hipbone this afternoon. It’s still there, but buried. I want to feel it sharp again I want my thighs not to touch I want the hush that comes from hunger the clarity, the reverence Is that so wrong?
Yes it is and so this isn’t just a book. It’s not a neat narrative of triumph or defeat. It’s the raw truth of living with this illness, the parts of myself I try to bury but can't. The fight that’s ongoing, even when it feels like it’s already been lost. I am not writing this for sympathy. I am writing because I am here, in this place, and I can’t escape it. Not yet. I can’t ignore the reality of it anymore, and neither should you. I want you to understand what it really means to be consumed by this, and to try so desperately to escape, but to keep slipping back in.
I want you to see the truth behind the obsession. The hunger that is never satisfied, the rituals that can’t be broken The moments when you realize that you can’t break free, but you keep trying anyway This is the way I’m living right now There is no romanticizing it. There’s no beauty in it. It’s a disease, plain and simple, and it’s not something you choose it’s something that takes and breaks you, piece by piece.
I don’t want to hide it. I want to share this. To show how it feels to be so deep in it, that even when you want to fight, you can’t break free. Because maybe, by showing this, I can help someone else see the reality of this illness.
\ ITo help them understand what it’s really like to live inside a body that feels like a cage, to live with a mind that is constantly at war.
Maybe, by sharing this, someone will know that they’re not alone. That it’s okay to say, ‘I can’t do this on my own.’ That it’s okay to ask for help, even when it feels like there’s no way out But for now, this is where I am Not at the end Not at recovery But in the middle of the fight, still writing. Still holding on to whatever control I have left. With 58.0 kilograms to shed.
The weight is coming off again. Slowly, steadily, like it always does when control takes the wheel. Not because I want it to. Not this time. But because I don’t know how to stop it. Because something in me still confuses discipline with safety, emptiness with peace.
I’ve tried to hold on. I’ve tried to fight. But I’m slipping back into rules, rituals, quiet calculations. I’ll keep writing. Not because I want to glorify this, but because I want to expose it Because if it’s going to happen anyway if I’m already in it then I might as well create understanding for this disease I want people to see this illness for what it is: cruel, consuming, never satisfied. I want to peel back the curtain, take away the aesthetics and show you the mess underneath. The truth.
So yes I’m losing weight, but not because that’s the goal. It’s the evidence of how bad things are. Of how tight the grip is. Of how far I’ve slipped, even while part of me still screams to come back.
And that’s why the chapters are titled with numbers. Not because the numbers matter but because they mark the descent. They track the unraveling. When I hit fifty, that chapter will be Fifty. When I reach forty-seven, it’ll be Forty-Seven. Not to celebrate the drop, but to show you how wrong it feels to be there To remind you that the lower the number, the darker the mind Anorexia promises you a lot. It whispers that thinner means lighter not just in body, but in burden. That if you can just lose enough, shrink enough, disappear just right, you’ll finally feel okay. It tells you that discipline is freedom. That control will make the noise stop. That hunger will make you clean.
It lies.
Because the thinner you get, the louder it gets. The more control you chase, the more out of control you feel. You won’t get peace. You get fear constant, bonedeep. You get rituals, rules, restrictions that don’t let you rest. You get the illusion of power, while you’re being devoured.
So no, the chapters aren’t trophies They’re timestamps Coordinates on a map I never meant to redraw. And I name them this way not because I believe in them, but because I want to show you what they really mean. The reality of the illness. I want to recover. I really do. But this... this is where I am. And this is what it looks like.
And if I make it out if I manage to break the rules I wrote for myself, the final chapter won’t have to be a number at all. I strive for it to be called 'Chapter whatever number fits me'. And hopefully by then, I’ll finally know what it means.
Chapter Fifty-seven July 14
It happened on April 27. The kind of day that doesn't feel dangerous until you look back on it. Clear skies, soft air, the city waking up slow but I had already decided Before my feet even touched the floor, it was set: Today, we buy a scale Not an impulse, not an accident. A mission. Precise. Calculated. The same way others wake with the thought: Today I’ll water the plants, call my mother, go for a walk, I woke with 'today, we take back control'.
I walked into the store with only one purpose. No mascara, no toothpaste. I walked in for the scale. I walked out with it clutched in both hands like a stolen relic something sacred, something dangerous.
It had been four months since I’d owned a scale. Therapy had taken it away, or maybe I had let it go a symbolic act, a surrender. But during those months, I hadn’t really stopped The gym had one analog, old, with a shaky needle that hovered more than it pointed You couldn’t tell the exact number It was vague And in that vagueness, I found a kind of temporary peace. Like glancing at a shadow and convincing yourself it’s not a monster.
It was the "almost knowing" that calmed me. I told myself it didn’t count. That therapy would forgive the approximation. That I wasn’t breaking rules, just bending them leaning on technicalities like crutches. But the craving for exactness never left. The smoke never cleared. I needed numbers. Hard truth. Unshakable digits.
So I bought the scale. I waited until I was home Door closed Curtains drawn Heart racing I stepped on bare, empty, just woken up with a mission The number blinked to life: 58 0 kg It only took one second to undo months of therapy. One second, and I was shattered glass all those gentle affirmations swept off the shelf. "Your worth is not your weight." "You are more than a number." Gone. Replaced by the roaring certainty that I was too much. Too full. Too soft. Too fat.
I stared at the number like it had slapped me. I was supposed to be gaining, yes that was the plan. That was the goal. But knowing and seeing are not the same. Seeing made it real. Seeing made it feel like failure. Never in my life, never in my eight years of fighting against anorexia, have I weighed this much.
I stood there frozen, weighing something heavier than kilograms: Do I tell her? My therapist. The one who fought for me when I didn’t want to fight. If I tell her, she’ll take it from me. Again. She’ll steal the only control I have left. Still, I opened WhatsApp. My fingers trembled. “I bought a scale.” Her reply came fast, warm, firm. “And where is it now?”. “In my room”, I replied. “Okay. We’ll talk Monday. Don’t step on it again, okay? It says nothing. Nothing important”. I didn’t reply right away, doubting if I did the right thing by telling her and then finally said: “I’ll try.” I think she knew I was slipping back. “That number… it's not just more weight. It’s growth. It’s more laughter. More memories. It’s more LIFE. You are doing amazing. You can do this.”
I wanted to believe her I did
Two days later, April 29, I had therapy and we talked about the scale situation. After discussing for a while, I promised I’d throw it away. That was our deal. Trash it. No half-measures. No “just hiding it.”It needed to be gone.
But when I got home, my hands hesitated. As you may have guessed, the scale didn't end up in the garbage as promised it slid into a drawer under my bed. One I never opened. And one I now opened more than I liked to admit. It wasn’t gone. It wasn’t forgotten. It was paused. Still, life continued. Summer in Italy bloomed around me markets bursting with color, mornings laced in espresso and chatter, golden hour walks, laughter at late-night dinners. I kept the number steady. Therapy helped Routine helped I balanced on the edge of control like a tightrope not gaining, not losing Just holding Just surviving
But now it’s July 14. Chapter Fifty-seven. And I am already 0.3 kilograms ahead of schedule. Tomorrow I had to weigh 57.3 kilograms according to my plan. That number that beautiful, wicked number is coming down again. Slowly. Quietly. Predictably. It feels like coming home. Like slipping into a skin I never truly shed. The spreadsheet is working. The rituals are working. My head is quieter.
Tomorrow I move into a new apartment. My housemate and I are going our separate ways. She’s been witness to my journey here. She knew about my eating disorder, and she was there for me in ways that I’ll always appreciate she supported me, learned about the illness, even wrote a beautiful song about it on her guitar. We grew closer as we got to know each other on a deeper level. She never saw the full weight of the struggle in the past, the darkest parts of it, but she knew about most of it. The new place? New housemate. Italian. Kind eyes. Older. She won’t know. She won’t see. She won’t ask. The eating disorder is thrilled. “We can do anything now No more watching eyes No more concern in someone’s voice when you skip dinner again " In a way, that feels oddly freeing A blank slate, where only my name is known and not my story. It feels like a small escape.
“Finally, full control.”
I nod. I agree. It’s dangerous. And I know it. But I’m also so excited.
In two weeks, I go back to the Netherlands. And the voice tells me a lot, with fangs hidden in velvet. “You left at 52 kg. You cannot come back weighing more. What will they think? The people who knew? The ones who watched you cry before leaving, terrified of a relapse? What if they see softness where there was once sharpness? You can’t let that happen ” I know it’s a lie I know it’s illness But that doesn’t make it quieter.
I lie awake sometimes, whispering math in the dark. Calories, steps, grams, projections. I picture my suitcase packed with linen dresses and fewer grams of flesh. I imagine the reunion how they'll hug me and think “She did it. She looks good. She stayed strong.” But what they’ll really be seeing is not strength, but control. Not healing, but hiding. This is not a victory. This is a warning. The descent is happening again and the scariest part is how natural it feels. Like picking up a language you once spoke fluently. Like slipping on an old coat that still fits too well.
But I write this to remember To record To be honest not just with the world, but with myself. Because if I don’t, I’ll convince myself that this is fine. That this is recovery, just a little.. neater.
It’s not.
Recovery is messy. It’s weight gain. It’s sitting with discomfort. It’s throwing away the damn scale and not digging it back out at 2 a.m. It’s trusting someone else when your brain screams they’re wrong. It’s holding on to the life you’ve built not slipping back into the quiet, sharp, cold life you left
But still. This is where I am. Fifty-seven. Not just a chapter. But a checkpoint. A confession. With 57.0 kilograms to shed.
July 21
I've been living in my new room for nearly a week now. It's strange how quickly a place can start to feel like something not home, not quite but something softer than unfamiliar. I wake up to different light now. The shutters don’t shut all the way, so the morning leaks in early. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s something i’ll miss.
This is the final stretch. I'm trying to breathe it all in, to let Milan stain me in a way that doesn’t wash out. I eat okay. not enough, but not nothing. Sometimes that feels like progress. other times it feels like betrayal.
It's because there’s this girl I met here, we became friends last week and she often wants to eat together. I don’t want to say no. Not because I'm hungry, but because I want to connect I want to live I want to say I truly lived here and that means saying yes sometimes saying yes even when my chest tightens and the numbers rise and I feel the edge start to slip beneath my feet. I think that's recovery.
I'm okay, though. really. The weight is falling, slowly, quietly, like the way dusk folds over a city. nothing drastic. nothing sharp. I'm at 56 now you probably already knew that. It's the title of this chapter, after all. Fitting, isn’t it? How even my writing carries the weight.
I want to go back to 52. That's the number I left with, I crossed the borders with. That’s the version of me that boarded the plane and whispered, you’ll be fine, just don’t look down. At 52, everything is balanced. just enough to keep people from worrying just enough for me to exhale when I catch my reflection Still too much always too much but bearable Survivable I feel like at 52, anorexia can go quiet again. She can fold her arms and sit down. At 52, I can finally rest. Not because I'm free not really but because I've struck a truce. At 52, everything will be okay.
The hardest part now isn’t even the food. I've learned how to eat in public. therapy taught me that. Taught me how to survive a restaurant, how to sit at a table and not flinch. Walk through the supermarket without getting a panic attack. I can eat outside. I can even eat with others. It doesn’t unravel me the way it used to. The hardest part for now is moving back and not relapse further.
Inside this apartment it's a bit hard, I must admit. I share a kitchen with someone I don't know. That sounds small, but it isn’t. Not for me. It’s the reason I skip dinner. I can’t cook here. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t step into that space and feel okay. Social anxiety is present for the first time in months. What if my cooking skills aren't the best, what if my food doesn't look perfect? I avoid it, the kitchen, but I do eat out. I tell myself I'm managing. and maybe I am. Maybe this is what recovery looks like: messy, inconsistent, but moving. And that’s what i keep trying to do. Keep moving, to recovery, but also toward 52. Toward silence. toward something like peace. Just a little further. Just a little lighter. And then I'll stop. I promise.
Chapter Fifty-five
July 29
I left the call, but the voice stayed. It was my last therapy session today. Not in a white office, not face to face Just me, in my room in Milan Sitting on the edge of my bed, laptop balanced on a pillow, the summer light slipping in through the halfopen blinds. Outside, the city kept breathing, but my world was quiet. Everything paused.
She smiled when the screen loaded. Not the forced kind, but the kind that makes your throat catch. Soft. Familiar. Final. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. And it felt like something broke open in me and something else locked even tighter.
“You’ve come so far,”she said. “You are such a beautiful human being, so strong, I really am so so proud of you." After eight years, maybe.. maybe you can start letting this go if you continue with therapy back home, if you start trauma therapy Sweet girl, you don’t need it anymore You deserve it to recover fully instead of staying in this quasi recovery”.
I smiled with tears in my eyes. I nodded. I thanked her. And the whole time, the eating disorder sat next to me. She was quiet, but not gone. She crossed her arms and leaned back, smug, like she knew a secret. Because even as my therapist spoke voice warm and full of belief I felt it. The hollowness under her words. The way they floated through the screen, almost reaching me, but never quite sinking in. Because deep down, I already knew. I was slipping again.
I had already started counting again. Already begun choosing the smaller portions, taking the longer walks, ignoring the hunger until it felt like control again Already practicing silence again not just with food, but with truth I told her it had been a good week. And it had, in some ways. The weather was nice. I laughed with friends. I drank coffee on a terrace and felt the wind through my hair and pretended it was freedom. But it was also the past two weeks I started listening to her again the voice that told me I was still too much. Still too full. Still too fat. Still not done yet.
The thing about people like me people who spend years wrapped in apology and performance is that we’re really, really good at being what you want to see. And I wanted her to see someone she could be proud of. So I gave her that. I sat in my neat little room in Milan and painted the picture she deserved after all her work, all her patience, all her care. I didn’t want to disappoint her. I didn’t want her to see the cracks. But the truth is, I was already bracing myself. Already panicking about going home. Already dreading the weight of returning to a place that has never felt like mine.
Because home, for me, means chaos in the quiet It means voices that talk over mine. It means parents who think love is the same as control. It means sitting at the dinner table feeling like a stranger in my own skin. It means losing whatever fragile piece of autonomy I’ve managed to build here. And I know what happens when I feel that powerless. I know what she does. She gives me something to hold onto. Something sharp. Something measurable. Something mine.
It’s terrifying how comforting she still is. Even after everything. Even after feeling completely dead inside. After going to sleep, worried if I would wake up again. After being so weak I could barely walk the stairs in high school. Even after being told, again and again, that this is not love. Not safety. Not truth. I still reach for her when everything else starts to slip My therapist warned me that back home I might relapse, because I come back to the same environment I left months ago. I changed, but back home, everything might be the same. I know she is right, because deep down, I feel it happening already.
And now, with just one day left, I feel like I’m walking on a wire again. Smiling. Balancing. Pretending. Going out with friends and ordering food like I’m okay. But compensating in silence. Skipping meals before. Exercising after. Running the numbers like a secret ritual no one sees.
I want to be present. I want to enjoy these last moments. But I can’t help but think about the weight About how I’ll look when I cross the borders again What people will see when they hug me What they’ll whisper when I leave the room And I can’t be heavier. She won’t let me. She’s already recalculating everything. Already warning me: “You’re running out of time. You need to be smaller. Quieter. Sharper. Thinner. Again.”
And then, there’s the number. Fifty-Five. A number that once terrified me. But now, it soothes me. Because at least it’s not 58. At least it’s not 'almost' 60. It feels closer to 50 again the safety zone. The number that sings lullabies to my nervous system. It’s twisted. I know. But it feels like something I can control when everything else is spinning. I don’t know how to tell people I’m not ready. That I’m scared of what comes next That I don’t trust myself without her yet That letting go doesn’t feel like freedom but like falling.
And so I smiled during our session. I told her how much she meant to me. How grateful I was. How lucky I felt to have had her voice guiding me through the darkness the past months. How there suddenly wasn’t only black and white anymore, but also different shades of gray. And I meant it. Every word. She saved my life. But even she couldn’t stop the voice from staying after the call ended. Even she couldn’t make me believe, completely, that I’m strong enough to do this without her.
So I closed my laptop I stared at the quiet room I listened to the city through the window And I sat with the echo of her words “You can let go now” “You’ve done enough.” “You are enough.” And somewhere deep inside, I hoped she was right. I want her to be right. But I don’t know how to let go of something that’s been my shadow, my spine, my story for so long. Eight years. Almost a decade of damage dressed up as discipline. Eight years of chasing empty. Of calling it peace. And now, I’m supposed to just stop? I wish it were that simple. But nothing about this has ever been simple. Not the hunger. Not the healing.
So here I am. Chapter Fifty-Five. Sitting in a foreign room that somehow feels more like home than the one I’m going back to tomorrow. Watching the light shift on the floor. Wondering if maybe just maybe it’s possible to learn a new kind of safety One that isn’t carved out of hunger One that doesn’t ask me to disappear But I’m not there yet And that’s the truth I didn’t say out loud today That maybe, just maybe I’m still not ready to say goodbye. Not to my eating disorder and not to my therapist.
Chapter Fifty-four
August 18
Finally. A number I’ve seen before. The heaviest number I ever reached during my previous recovery A number that once felt suffocating but now feels almost gentle in its familiarity. 54.0. I remember it clearly, back when I stood on the scale and cried because I thought I’d never be small again. Cried because I lost control. But this time, standing there barefoot, naked, empty it felt different. It felt like a checkpoint. Like a pause, not an end. Like the part in the movie where the music swells and the protagonist looks into the distance, not because she’s free, but because she’s finally back on familiar ground.
We’re almost there. Almost to 52. The body remembers. The mind rejoices. And for now just for now it’s easy. The weight is coming off without resistance. I know that will change. I know that now we’ve moved back home, things will become more difficult Structure returns Expectations reappear Meals are shared again Supervision grows
We officially moved back on July 30. Three days later, I was on a plane again. Back to Italy just for a week this time. Just to breathe. Just to feel the control again. I told people I missed the weather. I told them I missed the language. But really? I missed the silence. I missed the routine. I missed the invisibility. I missed the way my body didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone else there. In Italy, I could be quiet. I could be alone. I could fall back into old rituals without flinching. No one knew me well enough to notice. Or no one knew her well enough to notice. No one looked too closely.
But now it’s August 18 And I am home Except it doesn’t feel like home
Because here, my body is a shared object. Here, my plate is monitored. My weight speculated. My energy observed like a weather pattern. My body is not just mine it belongs to the people who say they love me. And maybe they do. But their love feels like control. Like confinement. Like a checklist I never asked to be on.
No one says anything about my eating disorder. And somehow, that silence cuts deeper. It’s not concern that fills the room it’s absence. The absence of questions, of conversations, of acknowledgment. Like if we don’t talk about it, maybe it was never real. Like if they never say the words, they can convince themselves I’m fine. But silence doesn’t mean safety. And not speaking doesn’t mean not knowing. It means choosing comfort over confrontation Their comfort My confrontation
But it's fine. Because every time someone comments they’re stealing a line from my story. They’re picking up the pen and writing something I never gave them permission to write. In Italy, I held the pen. In Italy, I dictated the pace. Well, my therapist and I. But here? Here I’m just a reader again. A reader from my own story. A reader of my own story someone else is authoring. A body shaped by other people’s expectations. And I hate it.
I hate the way dinner is announced like a performance. I hate the way someone always glances at my plate like they’re taking inventory. I hate that I can’t skip without it becoming a conversation I hate how the kitchen feels like a courtroom and I’m always on trial
I was okay in Italy. Maybe not always healthy. Maybe not safe. But I was okay. I was happy. Because I was in charge. Because I could walk the tightrope with no net and call it freedom. But now, even my rituals have been reduced to whispers. Even my hunger feels louder here. I miss the silence.
Now, everything is noise. Conversations. Questions. Plates clattering. The clock ticking toward dinner. The footsteps that stop outside my door and then continue when I don’t emerge. I live in a house where everyone decides everything for me, whilst pretending they don't. That’s what makes it so suffocating.
Maybe that’s what stings the most The silence isn’t comforting it’s loaded It’s knowing they once read the truth, years ago, in pages they were never meant to see and choosing not to speak it aloud. It’s absence disguised as peace. It’s pretending. Everyone is pretending. Them, by saying nothing. Me, by acting like that nothing never mattered.
I want to go back. To Italy, yes to the quiet, to the control, to the feeling of being untouched by anyone’s narrative but mine. And to before, when the hunger was sharper than the fear, when I still believed thinness could fix things. But more than anything, I want to go back to 52. That sacred number. That safe weight. That version of me who still had room to disappear.
Because right now, I feel full. Not just physically, but spiritually. Emotionally. Too full of opinions. Too full of concern. Too full of the noise that recovery brings. Recovery is so loud.
They don’t tell you that. They don’t tell you that when you start eating again, the world starts watching. That your body becomes a broadcast. That your silence gets replaced by scrutiny. They don’t tell you how every bite is an announcement. Every meal a negotiation.
And so I shrink in other ways. I smile more. I speak less. I fold myself smaller into chairs, into conversations, into corners I say “I’m fine” like a prayer I nod I eat enough to avoid questions I walk long enough to earn silence I track again Not openly. Not obsessively. Just enough. Just under the radar. Enough to feel like I still own something in a world that keeps trying to confiscate my control.
Like I said before, it’s funny how quickly I slipped back into it. Like muscle memory. Like a secret language. Like something my body has never unlearned. I chew slower. I slice thinner. I stretch meals like silk over hours so no one notices how little I’m actually consuming. I log everything. Even water. Even the mints I suck on at night to trick my body into thinking it’s been fed.
I thought being back would be a new chapter. A fresh start. But it’s just a continuation A returning A repetition Because I never really left this place this illness I just vacationed from it I just put it on pause Like the scale in the drawer Like the thoughts I pretend I don’t still hear.
And here’s the truth I haven’t said aloud: I’m scared.
II’m scared of what happens when I can’t lose anymore. I’m scared of what I become if I reach 52 and I still don’t feel light enough. I’m scared that even when I get there, it won’t be enough. My boyfriend warns me for it. For reaching 52 and still not being satisfied. I tell him I will be. I tell him I can stop. That I'm the one in control, not anorexia. I'm scared that the silence I seek will still be too loud. That my body will still be too visible That my mind will still be too full
But I can’t stop. Not yet. Not while I’m still above 52.
52 is the lighthouse. The checkpoint. The breath I can finally take. 52 is when I’ll start wearing tighter clothes again. 52 is when I’ll start showing up in photos. 52 is when I’ll finally believe I deserve to take up space. Or maybe that I’ve finally taken up less. It’s twisted. I know. But so is this illness. It rewrites your definitions. Turns survival into shame. Turns nourishment into noise.
And here I am. Back in the place where I learned to disappear. Back in the home where my illness first grew teeth eight years ago Back in the country where therapy began and stopped and will not start again The timeline isn’t linear The progress isn’t neat. And neither is this chapter.
This is Chapter Fifty-four. Not a celebration. Not a fall. Just a moment. A confession. A breath between breakdowns. I will reach 52. I know I will. Because I always do. Because I know how to. Because my body remembers the way. But whether I’ll be okay when I get there that’s the question I can’t answer.
Maybe I’ll feel peace. Maybe I’ll feel nothing. Maybe I’ll start again. But for now, this is where I am. At 54.0. Familiar ground. Dangerous comfort. And the descent continues. Still writing. Still starving. Still pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. Still trying to find a way back to silence.
Still holding my breath waiting for 52 to let me exhale
Chapter Fifty-three
August 27
Fifty-three. Almost 52. The finish line is close enough to taste, though I know better than to trust that kind of hunger We’re back home for two weeks now Again. The house smells the same. The walls carry the same silence. The floor creaks in the same places. But I am not the same. Except I am.
Not fully. Not visibly. But somewhere beneath the skin, the rhythm is familiar. I know the steps. I know the rules. I know the way the weight slips slower when I’m here. I knew this would happen. Factored it into my plan like an equation. Input: home. Output: resistance. Variable: control.
It’s harder here. The scale inches downward, but reluctantly. It doesn’t glide like it did in Italy. There, the descent was smooth. Velvet-lined. Here, it grates. Sputters. But it still moves
I’m not panicked. Not like before. I’ve given myself permission to go slowly. The urgency is gone well, muted. The voice is still there, but she’s softer. Less teeth, more whispers. Always on, like background static. Always watching. Always weighing. But we’re doing this gently now. No chaos. No self-destruction. Just... devotion. A quiet kind of war. The spreadsheet still lives in a hidden folder, pastel columns gleaming like commandments. The rules still hum beneath every choice. But I let myself live, too. Sometimes. If it fits within range.
I’ll be starting training soon. University too. New routines, new rhythms. Predictable schedules, skipped lunches hidden under "back-to-back lectures," late dinners "because of practice " These things help They provide a frame And within a frame, it’s easier to restrict without raising suspicion
But here’s the truth: I feel okay. Truly. The obsession isn’t as loud as in the depths of my eating disorder. The compulsions still come, but they knock first. I choose to answer, or not. Most days, I do. Some days, I don’t.
II think about a particular conversation with my boyfriend a lot. It happened the last week I was in Milan. We were texting I remember the way his words came through the screen, gentle but steady. I had just told him I was nearly at 52 again. That I was so close. So close to the safety zone. And that once I got there, I could stop.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said it. Gently, but firmly. "I can see her creeping back in."
He told me he was scared. Scared that even at 52, I wouldn’t be satisfied. That I was chasing a ghost. That every kilo I shed was another inch I pulled away from myself. That this happend before. 'Remember when you weighed 49, 46, 43? Were you satisfied with these numbers? No, right? It will never be enough'.
And then he said something I didn’t expect. He said, "You talk about control a lot. How weight loss makes you feel like you’re in control. But you know what else is control? Staying the same Choosing stability That’s control, too "
At first, I didn’t get it. Or maybe the eating disorder didn’t. She argued with him for me. Debated. Twisted his words. Tried to win. Told me that maintenance was weakness. That standing still was failure. That true strength and control meant shrinking. Always shrinking. But he didn’t budge. And somewhere in the silence that followed, something clicked. 'Staying exactly where you are that’s also control. Holding a number. Keeping it steady. Not moving. That takes discipline. Precision. Restraint'. His words shook me a little. Because it was true. And because the eating disorder didn’t like it. Of course, she made a compromise. Whispered in my ear: 'Okay. Fine. We get to 52 first. Then we stay. Then we prove we can hold. He gets his version of control. I get mine.' And I? I’m the mediator. The human stuck between two voices that both think they’re trying to save me
My boyfriend. Me. And her. A twisted little triangle. A shared custody battle over one tired body. It’s strange, how she feels like a person sometimes. Like a roommate. A shadow. A lover. An enemy. I talk to her. Argue with her. Hate her. Miss her. Love her. Sometimes I even thank her. How messed up is that? How terrifying, that a part of my brain a part that is able to kill me still feels like home?
But I don’t romanticize it. Not really. Because I remember what this illness did to me before. How it made me feel. Or better said, how it didn't make me feel anything anymore. I see the thorns now, even when the petals bloom. I know what she costs me. I know what she takes. I know how small the world gets when you start shrinking inside it. Still, I’m not ready to let her go. Not fully. Not yet.
So here we are. Fifty-three. Almost breathing again.
The mornings are ritual now. Wake, pee, weigh. Step on the scale before the world touches me. Naked. Empty. Perfect conditions. The number flickers. 53.0. Sometimes 53.1 if I’ve been careless. Sometimes 52.8 if I’ve been good. I smile when it drops. Feel guilt when it doesn’t. But it’s quieter than before.
Breakfast is optional. Usually black coffee. Sometimes tea. A rice cake if the day calls for performance. I chew slowly. Count every bite. Log everything. Even when I pretend I’m not.
Dinner is more complicated Shared space Family scrutiny I fake fullness I serve myself less, if I'm even allowed to serve myself I talk more Give my cat the meat Make it look like I’m eating when I’m not. Clean up quickly, so no one sees what I left behind.
I walk more. Longer routes to nowhere. Take the stairs even when my legs ache. Tell myself it’s health. Tell my body it’s redemption. I skip lunch if I can. Or replace it with something small. Protein bars. Sliced cucumber. Half an apple, thinly cut. So many pieces it feels like more. I brush my teeth when I get hungry. Drink cold water. Chew mint gum. Tell myself: 'Hunger is not an emergency. It’s not. It’s a sign that I’m doing something right'. I know how fucked up that sounds. But that’s what it is, inside the illness. Inside this logic.
My boyfriend texts me every morning “How are you feeling?”I answer honestly, in a way that still hides the truth. “Good,” I say. And it’s not a lie. Not completely. Because I do feel good, in some ways. Lighter. Sharper. In control. But also fragile. Brittle. Like glass pretending to be steel.
I see old photos sometimes. From when I was heavier. From recovery months. My face a bit fuller. My smile different. Some say they saw the spark come back in my eyes when I smiled. For me it felt more like a forced smile, because it felt like living in a body that wasn't even mine. I felt like a prisoner in my own skin. My clothes were a bit tighter. The scary part is I don't actually see it, my mind tells me I look exactly the same I don't see it, but I do definitely feel it somehow
I want to hug that girl. And also I hate her. Because she let herself go, according to anorexia. Because she gave up the fight. Because she believed, for a moment, that freedom could be found in food. But maybe she was right. Maybe freedom is in eating a cookie without guilt. Maybe strength is showing up to dinner without calculating the cost. Maybe control isn’t always about numbers.
Still, I’m not there yet. Fifty-three. And the descent continues. I lit a candle last night. Lavender-scented. Soft flicker. I sat on my bed and wrote this chapter in my notebook first not the digital version. The real one. The sacred one. Scratched ink, bent pages The one with all the secrets I wrote: 'What if 52 doesn’t feel like enough? And under that: 'What then?' There was no answer Just the candle Just the quiet. Just the soft hum of a war I haven’t ended yet. And maybe that’s okay. For now. Maybe this chapter isn’t about fixing it. Maybe it’s about telling the truth. I’m still here. Still trying. Still afraid of what comes after 52. Still holding my breath. Waiting for the exhale. Fifty-three.
Almost there.
Chapter Fifty-two
September 9
52.0. There it was. The number I’d been chasing for weeks. I had imagined this moment so many times over the past weeks had whispered the number to myself like a mantra, like a prayer. And now that it was here, now that I was standing barefoot, empty, spine curved over the scale like it might whisper something else if I leaned in just a little more.. I felt it. That wave. That sick, electric rush. The high. It’s a high, really. That’s the part people don’t get it’s not sadness that comes first, it’s euphoria. It's the way the heart skips and the stomach flips and your brain lights up. That intoxicating wave of something that’s hard to describe unless you’ve felt it too. A surge of triumph, of satisfaction, of twisted joy. Like I had just proven something. Like I had finally gotten something right.
It’s addictive That’s the word The feeling is a high, plain and simple It’s no different than a drug You step on the scale and the number has dropped, and suddenly your whole body lights up. A thrill that shoots through you. Euphoric. Clean. Like you’ve been granted permission to breathe again. It doesn’t even last a full minute just enough to feel it settle into your bones. But by the next morning, it's gone. Dissolved. Replaced with the ache for more. Or rather for less.
Because that’s the paradox. You lose weight, and the reward is the compulsion to lose more. The “hit” wears off fast. What was satisfying yesterday becomes “too much” today. You get to 52 and all you can think is: 51. Then 50. Then finally... peace. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not.
In the mirror, nothing has changed I don’t look different I don’t feel smaller My clothes fit the same or maybe worse, depending on the angle, depending on the lighting, depending on how cruel my eyes decide to be. I stare at myself and think: this isn’t it. This can’t be the body that weighs 52. Because it still looks wrong. It still looks soft, wide, unworthy. I expected relief. Instead, I just feel like I’m lying. The number says 52, but my body doesn’t reflect that at least not to me. At least not to her.
But I remember this weight. 52 is familiar. It’s where I landed years ago when I tried to recover. Back then, I didn’t have words for what I was going through. Only one person really knew. There were no real therapy sessions, no hospital rooms, no interventions. Just me, trying to eat more while my brain screamed louder. And 52 was where it screamed the loudest. It was the weight where everything looked “fine” from the outside, but inside it felt like war I hated myself more at 52 than I ever did at 42. Because 52 meant I had gained. 52 meant I had “failed.” I thought I could live with it but I couldn’t. I didn’t.
And now I’m back here. Same number. Same weight. Same demons only smarter, quieter, more convincing. And the thing is... part of me is happy. Because on July 8, two months ago, I was closer to 60 than 50. Now I’m only two kilos away from my goal. Two kilos away from the number that, in my head, will fix everything. Fifty. That sacred number. That clean, sharp, controlled version of me. Fifty is where the voice will rest, I think. Fifty is the finish line. The bottom of the pit but a beautiful bottom. Neat. Contained. Quiet.
At 50, I’ll wear the clothes I love again I’ll stand in front of the mirror and not flinch. I’ll let people take pictures. I’ll move through the world without this constant need to hide. I’ll be proud. I’ll feel worthy. That’s what I tell myself. That’s what the voice promises. Fifty and then I’ll stop. Swear. Promise. Pinky-swear in the dark.
But I know myself. I know her. She never stops. She doesn’t do peace. She only ever asks for more. Or actually less. Always less.
Today I didn’t eat breakfast. Not because I wasn’t hungry I was but because hunger feels holy. Like confirmation that I’m still in control. Like proof that I’m still good at this. Lunch was a protein bar and coffee. Dinner was skipped, again. I walked 17,473 steps I logged everything Calories, weight, water, steps, minutes, thoughts I keep track of everything because tracking feels like safety Like power. But I’m tired. God, I’m so tired.
I live like this in silence. People see me laugh. They hear me talk about school, about moving, about plans. But they don’t see the notebook under my bed. They don’t know what 52 means.
They don’t hear the math whispering in my head when I’m at dinner. They don’t realize how carefully I arrange my day so I can avoid food. They don’t see the hours spent in front of the mirror, picking apart what no one else seems to notice.
An eating disorder is not a weight disorder. You don’t have to look sick to be sick. You can have anorexia at any weight high, low, or “normal” And the severity of the illness doesn’t shrink or grow depending on the number on the scale. Organ damage doesn’t ask what size jeans you wear. Heart failure doesn’t check your BMI first. A person who drops from 90 to 70 kilograms might look "fit," "healthy," even "inspiring" to the outside world but that descent could be just as dangerous as someone going from 60 to 40. Just because someone looks healthier, doesn’t mean they are.
That’s why we need to be careful. So careful. With the words we use. With the compliments we give. Because what if that “transformation” you’re praising isn’t a success story, but a tragedy in disguise? What if that weight loss isn’t the result of hard work, but heartbreak? Illness? Grief? Depression? What if it's anorexia? Would you still clap? Would you still say, “You look amazing”? I hope not I really, really hope not.
And the reverse is true too. I’m back at a “healthy weight.” Technically. On paper. In numbers. And yet, I am not healthy. Not even close. My mind is sick. My thoughts are rigid and obsessive. I still restrict. I still compensate. I still panic over food, over calories, over social events that involve meals. Do you think that’s what health looks like? That this is what freedom feels like? Because it’s not. A healthy body does not equal a healthy mind. So please be mindful. Be gentle. Be quiet, sometimes. You don’t always know the story behind the number. You don’t always know what you’re praising. You don’t always see what someone’s carrying even if the scale says “normal ” Because even now, even at 52, I’m still at war And I wouldn’t wish this kind of silence on anyone
They think I’m doing fine. And honestly? I don’t know if I’m not.
Because some days, I do feel okay. Lighter. Sharper. More in control. More myself. And I know how messed up that sounds, how dangerous that logic is.
But this is what the illness does it rewires everything. It tells you emptiness is peace, and hunger is grace, and thinness is the price of being loved.
Tonight, I lit a candle again. Lavender. I sat at my desk, pulled out the notebook the real one, the one no one sees and I wrote: “52. We made it. But now we go further ” And under that: “To 50 That’s where we stop That’s the rule ”
And I meant it. I think I meant it. But I’ve written that line before. I’ve crossed that weight before. I’ve made promises before. And I’ve broken every single one. Still, here I am. Fifty-two. Almost there. Almost enough. Almost quiet. But not yet. So the next thing I did? I opened my notebook to make a new plan. A new plan for the upcoming weeks.
It’s not.
It’s not.
It’s not.
MARIJEELIZE