Whose body is this?

Whose body is this, with legs that no longer have a cavern between them, and fingers which now fill the space of the rings that sit upon them?

Whose body is this, with a stomach that creases as it folds in half, and arms which feel warm and soft?

Whose body is this, with feet that are no longer mottled from cold and blistered from walking?

Whose body is this, with a back that shrouds it’s spine and ribs with a coat of warmth so that they can no longer be seen?

Whose body is this, that fits into its clothes, and is no longer the smallest in the room?

Not mine, surely. It can’t be mine. This isn’t the home I am used to living in. This isn’t how much space I am used to taking up. I have become accustomed to drowning in my clothes, to grabbing at my protruding bones, to shivering in even the warmest of temperatures.

This doesn’t feel like me, in this body that no longer warrants crinkled brows or comments of concern.

I don’t recognise myself in a mirror. I don’t look like me when I look down at my thighs and my stomach. I am not used to touching my body and feeling the softness of flesh, not the hardness of bones.

Whose body is this?

It’s mine. It’s mine and I have to accept it. I don’t have to love it and maybe I will never love it. Maybe I will never even like. But I have to, I have to, accept it. I cannot waste any more years wasting away to nothing at the expense of everything else that I hold dear and important. I cannot continue to treasure my weight over people I love, and my perceived self control over my achievements.

This is my body. It’s my home. It’s softer than I am used to. It’s bigger than I am comfortable with. It takes up more space than I feel I can tolerate.

But whose body is this?

It’s mine.