I finally wrestle the halter off and onto the floor.

“What?” Kristina is fifteen and gorgeous. I was about one-third boob before recovery (I was never one of those pretty little stick thing anorexics I was a chubby black girl who never quite hit not-chubby), and now I’m quickly closing in on one-half. “Kristina!” I’m halfway out of this halter top that wouldn’t even go past my boobs. Except for the simple and really unemotional fact that I’m going to the judgmental hot zone that is a gay club tonight and none of my clothes fit. Recovery was my choice, and sometimes it sucks like I can’t believe, but the truth is I am really damn positive about it and yeah, I’m not under any delusion that ice cream binges are the key to a happy relationship with food, but it’s better than not eating at all. I’m really not going to go down that road. I didn’t love him and he didn’t love me so minimal harm minimal foul.) And apparently those two things added up to an entire winter break of me on the couch eating jugs of ice cream off a wooden spoon because a regular spoon wasn’t big enough for the scoops I wanted to shovel down my throat. (Cut out toxic influences! my counselor said, and I’m still trying to figure out if Dump the boyfriend who weighs less than you! was a completely rational application of that, but whatever. I can make things work.Įxcept right now even that enormous bedazzled turtleneck wouldn’t fit me, because I broke up with Ben the week before Christmas and started eating disorder treatment a few weeks before that. I made my entire Halloween costume this year from a bag of sequins and a turtleneck.

It would be easier if I’d been invited, or if this party actually existed, but whatever. TIME FOR THE ETTA-GETS-HER-GROOVE-BACK PARTY.

Gone gone gone by hannah moskowitz