(CW: heavy discussion of eating disorders)

I have never not cared about my outfit. I have never not wanted to be skinny for equally as long. 

I distinctly remember the first time I chose my appearance over my comfort. I was six – it was early November, and the winter chill had just started to settle in. I hated my winter coat. It was rough on my skin, blue-ish sort of purple, and above all, it made me look puffy. This, of course, was an immediate no. Instead of wearing it, I opted for my fall coat: a slim-cut brown jacket.

Read into that what you will.

It’s easy to compartmentalize your illness into a more consumable package. To transform it into something that won’t get you sent to a hospital, but will serve its purpose all the same. Changing the shape of your disorder is easier than beating it.

I often wonder how something so obvious can fly under the radar. How doctors can see a patient obsessing with their appearance, and not recognize the connection between it and their fashion fixation. To me, the connection is unquestionable. Admittedly, first hand experience may have gave way to a bias; the escalations of my disordered eating and my clothes obsession are identical lines. 

As my mind grows sicker, my time getting dressed increases exponentially. I am dressing and redressing and redressing again. I am agonizing over every curve, every angle, and every flaw. I am stressing and obsessing over my visual appeal. 

I wonder about my sickness quite a bit. I wonder if it is pathetic. I wonder if an outsider would scoff at my indecision and dismiss my panic. More often, I wonder if I am sick enough to call myself sick in the first place. I find that I am stuck in an eating disorder limbo; I am sick, but never the sickest. I am forcing my friend to eat while forcing myself to do the same. It’s complicated. 

And is this not another symptom of my sickness? Is it not my continued obsession that makes me dwell on my pain? That has me fixate on my suffering in such a fashion that I feel the need to wax poetic about it for an audience? Is this not another consumable manifestation of my illness? Probably. 

I digress.

The truth is, my obsession with clothes is no different than my obsession with food. My love for black (because it’s slimming) is equatable to my love for rice cakes (because they’re “healthy”). I wonder how it feels to eat without thinking as often as I wonder how it feels to wear a bikini without being hyperaware of the way my body folds. 

Truthfully, I find it hard to believe that anybody can obsess over their outfit without requiring it to be “flattering,” that fashion can truly be a manifestation of creativity without the need to appeal to an outsider. I find it impossible to believe that anyone is able to dress for themselves when all we’ve been taught to be consumed.  I picture every self-proclaimed fashion-girly with a little voice in the back of their head screaming: “SKINNY EQUALS PRETTY YOU PIECE OF SHIT” at various volumes (for the Brandy Melville Babes of the world, it’s deafening). 

I entertain myself through competing with my fellow sick girls. My internal monologue reads like a tabloid; the classic who wore it better, with snarky commentary and all. In my disorder-addled brain, I simply cannot exist in the same vicinity of another woman without comparing myself to her. This has and continues to fuel me; I go to the most popular thrift stores for the sole purpose of silently competing against the other girls for the best haul. I look at girls in double-zero jeans and opt for a smaller size of my own. 

I need to be the smallest. I need to be the best.

This is embarrassing to admit. It’s embarrassing to be controlled by something. It’s embarrassing to have it inch its way into every thought, every movement, and every choice. It’s terrible.

I wonder if there is a world where my fashion is not an extension of my sickness – a parallel universe where I can love clothes without hating myself. I doubt it. I am nearly convinced that fashion exists solely to present one’s self as consumable and appealing.

And as I juggle this realization, and my lingering sickness, I am beginning to fear that I will never get better. I fear that just as there are no outfits without self-hatred, that there is no me without this disease. It has clawed its way into my consciousness like a parasite, and it has made its home there. 

I suppose that I am at an impasse; thinking harder about the topic has offered hundreds of problems and zero solutions. I am forced to realize that in the battle against my wardrobe I lose every time.