Nothing bothers me more than people reblogging my pro-recovery posts with pro-ed commentary. Recovery is a fragile thing, and it takes a lot of courage to write posts that rebuke my eating disordered thoughts. The last thing I want is for my post to go viral in the pro-ana butterfly community.

It was written in the spirit of love. Make your own post.

please read or pass along to your followers or add if you have any experience with this

Nobody ever talks about this but it’s very easy to develop disordered eating or an eating disorder in college because you no longer have your parents monitoring what you’re eating and you spend more of your time alone. Diet culture is still prevalent despite efforts of the body positivity movement. Even if it’s not motivated by diet culture, some people realize that food intake is an easy thing to control in life and that soothes them so they develop a deadly/unstable relationship with food.
I was so afraid of gaining weight as a freshmen that I stopped eating. Second semester everything was falling apart so I began extreme bingeing.
Know that more important than your weight is your health. Watch out for yourself and for your friends and make sure your environment is one that encourages a positive relationship with food.
One way to approach a friend who you’re worried about, who seems to be developing a disorder, is to simply say “wouldn’t your life be easier if you didn’t have to think about this all the time? there are some people who can help with that if it ever gets too much”
Look at how you’re handling food - do you think about it constantly? how regularly do you eat? what are your portion sizes? DONT COUNT CALORIES.
Also, know your campus, know your resources, know if you have nutritionists available or if you can take a health leave of absence if possible.
These are all tips to keep yourselves safe - please take care of yourselves.

The day the doctors and nurses are having
their weekly patient interviews, I sit waiting
my turn outside the office, my back to the wall,
legs curled up under my chin, playing

with the hem of my white hospital gown.
They have taken everything they thought
should be taken — my clothes, my books
my music, as if being stripped of these

were part of the cure, like removing the sheath
from a blade that has slaughtered.
They said, Wait a few days, and if you’re good
you can have your things back. They’d taken

my journal, my word made flesh, and I think
of those doctors knowing me naked
holding me by my spine, two fingers
under my neck, the way you would hold a baby,

taking my soul from between my ribs
and leafing through the pages of my thoughts,
as if they were reading my palms,
and my name beneath them like a confession,

owning this girl, claiming this world
of blackness and lightness and death
and birth. It lies in their hands like a life-line,
and I feel myself fall open or apart.

They hear my voice as they read
and think, Who is this girl that is speaking?
I know the end, she tells them.
It is the last line, both source and closing.

It is what oceans sing to, how the sun moves,
a place for the map-maker to begin.
Behind the door, nothing is said.
Like dreams, my clothes come out of their boxes.
—  Leanne O’Sullivan, “Waiting for My Clothes,” Waiting For My Clothes