I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.