I am nostalgic.

I came across this poem that I wrote five months ago — I honestly completely forgot I had written it. Every word of it rings true to me tonight. It’s hard. But I’m sharing it, sending it into the void. I’m not sure why.

Content note: talk of serious depression and disordered eating.


I am nostalgic for a time
when people would say
“this place wouldn’t be the same
without you”
when I could have intense conversations
with everyone I knew
and people didn’t abandon me
because of my beliefs.
I am nostalgic for belonging.

I am nostalgic for a time
when my depression was coded
“depth of character”
and not weakness of will
when my anxiety was a secret
and I could push through it all
for months on end.
I am nostalgic for appearances.

I am nostalgic for a time
when people swooned for my curls
and complimented my curves
but only when I lost weight
when my clothes hung on my body
and my smile wore thin
and I only ate every other day.
I am nostalgic for “beauty.”

I have romanticized
every forced smile
every skipped meal
every submission to the will of other people
every detachment from
every emotion
for most of my life.
I have demonized the realities
by calling them “breakdowns”
by calling them “flukes”
by apologizing for taking up
space and time
and making anyone notice
that I was actually in pain.

I am nostalgic for belonging
no matter the cost.

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