I cannot believe what I am about to say, but radical feminism is healing me.
I’ve been suffering from an eating disorder (an0rex1a) nearly all my life, my first worries about weight started when I was 9 years old and slightly chubby (and people made sure to point out that was bad).
More than a year ago, I reached my weight goal of 45kg at 175cm (99 lbs at 5’9"), and I thought I had made it. Finally, I became undeniably skinny, skinnier than most, the smallest I could be without dying, and therefore worthy.
Spending my days faintly, mostly sleeping, unable to work, study, or read, I thought that made me better. That my endless suffering meant I was worthy of true love, admiration, and all the better things in life.
Looking back, I am sad for my past self. For the first time in my life, I am making an effort to gain weight, to gain my life, my capacity, my abilities. I gained 7kg (15 pounds) in a year, but most of it came after reading (and taking it in—which took months) radical feminism theory, and now, being in this community.
Now, eating breakfast worth of calories of my full day back then, I feel freer. I am genuinely stopping equating my worth to my suffering, not just pretending I do in front of therapists and psychiatrists—but from within.
I cannot stress it enough. I had never been this free in my life, and throughout the endless years of treatment, I was sure I was never going to heal; some therapists even declined to work with me, for I was deemed a desperate case.
Therapy has flaws, as it focuses on the individual, on our own actions, while radical feminism points out the wider problem—systemic oppression.
The problem was never me.
snowghoul
blakekathryn
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
