The package my brother neatly packed and shipped from Australia had been waiting patiently for me to unwrap in the corner of my bedroom.
Filled with photos of our past, it had been there for three months now and it was time to open it. Even before my eyes hit the photos within the package, which represented a life time ago, the shame — which hid in the fiber of my being and self-worth beliefs — came flooding back as if it had never gone away.
With each photo I take out of the package, I’m reminded of the chronic lack of control and the compulsive nightly binges that are reflected in the bulged chin, thighs, and hips of the young lady staring back at me from the photos.
It’s my history, the part that I have longed to forget. Even throughout my recovery, I have wanted to ignore my story, which included eating my feelings.
All eating disorders carry shame
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