For me, dating has been treading in an infinity pool — or rather, an infinity sewer, bouncing from one lily pad — one cavalier boy to the next, yearning to navigate to my soulmate. I started dating right before I turned 20, and I wildly accelerated speed to make up for years of getting no romantic attention. My hastiness consisted of latching onto the lifeboats of boys who only wanted my rims and my lips — boys who employed me as a toy to gel their arrogance and pompous personality. And I gave into their schemes. I fed into the nectars of each of their hyperboles and embellishments. I placed them on a pedestal (so high, they snobbishly sauntered among the clouds). I worshiped them. I was clay in their hands — theirs to mold. I built my entire universe around them. I gifted them all my “firsts.” I landed “first place” in foolishness and delusion, permanently sporting obscuring rose-colored goggles. I let them define my self-worth. I let them hinder my valiant ventures and strides in eating disorder recovery.
Often my relationship with food and dalliances of romance are entangled — once I pursue rendezvouses with my latest manic fixation, I neglect my mind and body’s dire needs. Because I couldn’t control how he felt about me, I started to regulate my food intake. And suddenly, all the progress I’d fought for over the past three years disintegrated at the mention — even at the possibility — of a date. The intermingling of giddiness and anxiety bloated my stomach, utterly spoiling my appetite. And I was left hiding under my bed sheets in shame teetering between the complex world of healing and self-love, while proactively seeking my soul’s match.
Just recently, I’ve unearthed similarities between shedding anorexia’s leash around me and coping with heartbreak. I’ve stumbled upon three stages within my transition from ailing to ascending — plummeting, practicing, and prospering.
