For so many years I have seen myself as nothing more than a mess that needs to be cleaned up. I have viewed myself as OCD and anorexia, viewed myself as a case that needs to be solved. My anorexia has had me. My OCD has controlled my life. My entire being was my disintegrating brain. I was the anorexic. I was the mentally unstable sibling.
Over the last year I have started to separate myself from my mental health. It has been a futile task at times, because my anxiety can engulf every fibre of my existence and my OCD can scream at me so loudly that I can’t distinguish the guilt from the silence. But I can now see that I am not my anorexia or my OCD or my anxiety or my depression. I am Rosie.
I am the girl who stays up till 2am crying over a Sherlock episode. It isn’t my anorexia that tells me to google clues that Sherlock is actually-probably-100% gay. That is my overly emotional brain that finds comfort in a BBC drama.
I am the girl who likes sweet coffee. My depression has no say in the mugs that I constantly fill our kitchen cupboards with.
I am the girl who is in love with October and December. The delight that I feel when festive items start to creep into shops is nothing to do with my eating disorder. The calm I am filled with when the fire is lit and I can watch Nativity as many times as I like is not instigated by losing weight.
I am the girl who loves to sit in a cafe on a winter day with nothing but time.
I am the girl who can’t admit I’m wrong. I am dramatic and rude. I am too mature for my age but too emotional for my own good. I struggle with reality.
I am the girl who laughs with Abbie while we eat Biscoff and discuss our hopes for the future.
I am the girl with anorexia. But I am also so much more than that.