I have not been in the throes of anorexia, in the throes of my obsession with more and less, for several years now. I now occupy a different body, a body physically “recovered”, a body no longer in crisis. I now nurture a mind that doesn’t insist in all ways upon dichotomies of too much and never enough. But I still sometimes grapple to reconcile my mind and my body, viewing myself through a fractured, distorted lens. I know, rationally, that my body and the way I understand and experience it are not the same–in college, I was diagnosed with body dysmorphic disorder, a disorder of perception–but this divide, this divide that gave rise to anorexia and dysmorphia, this impossible divide is deeply entrenched, born of pain and trauma that lie deep beneath the surface. Sometimes, it feels impossible, my work now, as I unearth that trauma to rebuild my fractured self–the chasm between my mind and my body, my now and my then and my someday, seems too wide; I feel as though I am too fragmented. But I will be whole again–I am (still, always, ever) healing.