I will not make a martyr of my body for what I cannot speak aloud.

I ponder this sentiment as I stand frozen, feeling the enormous weight of recovery, present mostly in my brain and in my belly.

Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t.

My thoughts are violent. They are angry because they come from a place of fear. I am afraid of my body. The body that takes up space knowing no right or wrong way to do so. It simply exists, without any malevolent volition, to do my bidding. So why does it feel as though I have this adversarial relationship with this body? It is if my body is merely an extension or representation of me, and not something with which my consciousness is one. And still my studies have informed me that this is not the case. Our brains are part of our bodies, in the simplest of terms.

These violent thoughts tell me to rid my body of the nourishment to which I have just provided.

As it were, having an eating disorder has figured my relationship with my body to be rather dynamic. Years of abuse and neglect between the two parts of one whole have frayed the ends of some very important connections. My understanding of somatic sensations is limited, as it became blurred with emotional oppression. In order to combat the horror upon confrontation with the mirror, I aimed to destroy my body.

But don’t we all?

We traverse the holy ground of bookstores and libraries, haunted by ever growing aisles of smiling women on book covers proclaiming their possession of the Holy Grail that is Eternal Skinniness. We cannot leave a grocery store unscathed by the glossy sensationalism of a female public figure’s weight loss or gain. The same screen that brings these words to you may also flash recipes for fulfillment in the form of a sugar, oil, gluten, and diary free muffin we will use to reduce our hunger for self-love. We “eat clean and train mean” to take up the space in our thoughts that seeks profound understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

Our thoughts trick us into believing that the body is the problem. The body that knows no right or wrong, but instead neutrally pursues homeostatic balance, is our terminal enemy. We will finally be happy once we smooth our dimples, firm our arms, and shrink. We are shrinking women, seeking validation as we try to perfect our disappearing act. And we will always fail, because a fundamental requirement for being human is to occupy a body that takes up space.

Taking up space means taking ownership of the body that has been objectified, commoditized, and abused for centuries. It means acceptance that we can do better. It means acknowledging pain and trauma accompanied by emotions that wreak havoc on our complacency. It means feeling unmuted joy without our most loyal companion: guilt.

Our epic journey to defeat the nebulous and existential turmoil of personhood is far more fantastic than our pursuit of the correct body. Our body deserves respect, from others and from ourselves. We have voices much more powerful than a shrinking body. We will not make martyrs of our bodies for what we don’t say aloud, for we will speak, shout, cry, laugh, love, lust, and simply be.