Everytime I meet S's friends for the first time it involves eating. There was a brunch the first go around, and last night... a fucking buffet. Which if you suffer from any sort of disordered styled eating is the actual worst environment to be in as far as I'm concerned. Oh let's see... new people AND chosing what food to put on your plate... then walking with said plate of food to table... then trying to eat said food while talking to aforementioned new people. My heart is racing just thinking about the possibility of doing it again.
I wanted to scream, "I'm better than this! Let's go dancing! Or let's go to a book store... or an anatomy lab... or hell a fucking park and swing!!" I wanted to send telepathic messages that said, "Please don't judge me by what I'm putting into my mouth or not putting into my mouth, or how I'm putting it into my mouth..."
Here is the thing that the super duper smart Me knows: They aren't judging me. Because they aren't fucked up. I am.
I am the one who cries in the dressing room because I feel less than a woman with no breasts. I am the one who feels less than a woman when I know that others look past me or through me or can just see the surface me. I am the one who doesn't ever feel heard... so I often just don't really speak...
I asked once if anyone ever truly saw me or heard me. None of them understood. Except maybe a couple. I meant do they SEE ME and do they HEAR ME... do they really know who the fuck I am and do they understand? Do they care to?
I do okay eating with S, just her and I. And Kevin and I really have fun eating... I've never had FUN eating. I'm trying very hard to not make this about anything more than it needs to be. But sometimes, you know, you just can't help it.
I'll see S in a few days, for a few days. And we'll spend time cooking for one another. It's so healthy and for me, truly healing. I need it. I need to be in the kitchen with my heart. Feeding it. And her. And me.