(TW: sexual assault, intimate partner violence). 

People often ask me why I stayed with my previous partner for so long, despite the fact that he had raped me. "I loved him", is how I would usually respond. "I loved him so much that I couldn't fully comprehend what he had done to me". That answer my friend, was the golden answer. The answer that would shut people up and allow them to move throughout their days without another thought. And although that sentence left my lips often, it was only half of a truth. I did not stay with this man because I simply loved him. If that were the case, I would have left the second he twisted my no into a yes. I would have left the second he turned sex into rape. But I didn't fucking leave because of a hell of a lot more than the fact that I loved him. 

The honest truth is that, I didn't leave because I thought it was my fault. That afternoon, I initiated it. I kissed him first, I touched him first, I took off his clothes first. I was okay with it. At first, yes, I did want to have sex with this man, and that's what we did. But then it began to hurt, and I wanted it to stop. So I said no, and despite my no, he pushed me down and raped me. I cannot even begin to explain the hollow and disgusting feeling that coursed through my entire body afterwards. To this day, I still experience this gut-wrenching feeling after I engage in any type of sexual activity. 

He told me that he raped me because of miscommunication. He told me he raped me because he was thinking with his dick, rather than his mind. Those were the exact excuses he used to justify his actions, and to make them okay and acceptable. And whether you think I'm an idiot or not, I believed him. I did not leave him because I blamed myself. I felt disgusting and dirty because I had given into my sexual desires, which in the end, lead to rape. If I had never wanted to have sex in the first place, he would've never raped me. If I had never opened my legs, he would have never abused my vulnerability. 

And just like that, it was put in the past. Covered up and hidden. On the outside, he seemed like the perfect boyfriend. Always buying me flowers, driving me to places, taking me out on dates, and paying for dinners. At the same time, I seemed like a horrendous girlfriend. I would throw the flowers he got me in the garbage, scream at him, and claim that nothing was ever enough. On the outside, I seemed awfully terrible to such a great, charming guy. 

Well here's the fucking TRUTH. The flowers? The gifts? The dates? They were used to manipulate me, to MAKE UP for the sexual assault. They were used as apology gifts. "I'm sorry I raped you, here's a fucking teddy bear". And me? I never truly clued into why I was so angry at him all the time - especially when he would buy me things and take me places. But now I know. There was nothing he could've done, nothing he could've purchased or said that would have made up for the damage that he had done. Nothing on this planet could give back the piece of me that he had taken with him. Nothing could level the playing ground with the emotional and physical trauma he had put me through. And that sis, is the fucking truth. 

The thing about being passively suicidal is that there are no red flags. There are no ambulance sirens, or 911 calls, or the locking medication cabinets. The thing about being passively suicidal is that there are no inpatient visits, or late night followups, or the drinking of charcoal. 

But you know what there is? 

There is the standing a little too close to the yellow line on the subway. There is the "forgetting" to look both ways before crossing the street. There is the "I know I can get up today, but I'd prefer not to".
There is the...
"I have an excessive amount of medication on my nightstand... just in case."
There is the...
"Marriage? Why think that far into the future if I'm not even going to be alive by then?"
There is the...
 "No I don't need to go to the hospital, but no I do need to go to the hospital."
There is the...
"Of course life will continue on the same when I'm gone." 

Being passively suicidal is NOT being fragile like a flower. It's being fragile like a motherfucking time bomb. 

Written by my beautiful friend Maddie Lamirande, Identity. 
(I am not going to say anything about this poem because that would very modernist of me).  

I want to start off by saying that I got this idea from my dietitian, who I saw today, and suggested a goal be looking back at this year in its entirety. I was curious as to why she wanted me to do this, because usually, setting goals with her means to achieve something. That a certain something in my recovery needed to be improved - whether that'd be "drinking more water", or "trying more fear foods", etc. So, I thought to myself, "What can possibly be achieved when looking back at this shitty fucking hell-hole of a year?". As if she had read my mind, (and I swear she can at this point), she told me to simply look at how far I've come this year, and that she was proud.

I honestly did not think that I would survive this year. Each day was heavier than the last. Every part of me was tired, all the time. I was so tired that I stopped loving and caring about everything I used to love and care for. All I thought about, every second of every day was my eating disorder. I became a person that I, my family, and my friends could no longer recognize. I truly thought that whatever hell I was in, was unescapable. I remember calling my case manager one night, sobbing, begging her to help me - because I did not know how to help myself anymore. I got a point where I forgot how to survive, let alone live. I did not know how to feed myself, I barely slept, and I could not do anything sober anymore. I told myself every night that if I did not wake up the next morning, then that would be a fucking miracle - for me, and for everyone around me as well. 

In June, I went inpatient to detox off of substances. I could not have done this without my psychiatrist because she fought for a bed for me. I honestly believe that if she did not do this, I would not be alive today. I am forever grateful for that, and for being alive. The biggest thing I learned from this experience was that I was loved, and that people wanted me to get better, to fight for myself again. During my inpatient stay, I was busy, Everyday I had a friend come down, for hours, and stay with me. When my friends could not come, my mother would. They distracted me from the reality of the detox, and tried to take my pain away. They tried to help carry that pain, so it was no longer crushing me. I cannot thank them enough. 

When I had successfully detoxed, I started the Eating Disorders Day Program. Looking back, I was still incredibly symptomatic at the time, because I was not fully ready to let go of my eating disorder. I still could not see a life without it, and so I did not take treatment as seriously as I should have. That being said, I was kicked out three weeks later. I felt like a complete failure, a reject if you will. The staff in this program said that maybe I was not ready to take on recovery, and that my life was too chaotic. What I didn't know at the time was that what they had said was actually a blessing in disguise. I called my dietitian as soon as I was discharged, and told her that I needed my life back. I was willing to work my ass off and fight for recovery in order to prove the staff wrong. See the thing about me is, I will always, ALWAYS, prove you wrong. 

The day of my appointment was one of the best days of 2018 for me. My dietitian and I had our session outside, sitting on the grass. It was a beautiful day outside, and I was excited. It was the first time she was meeting me sober. Sober, determined, and angry. Angry at my eating disorder for taking my life away. Angry enough to prove someone wrong. I knew for a fact that day that I would recover, and live the life that I was capable of living. I also knew that I was not alone, and that she would be by my side every step of the way. To this day, she is still one of my greatest supports. She has been the main support in my entire recovery, and I am incredibly thankful.

So, what have I learned this year?  
I learned that I was born with a fire inside of me. This drive, this passion, this motivation. This light that never burns out, but can fade from time to time. I learned that I have to be careful when the fire is dim, because it feels all consuming, yet it is not. Everything may seem dark, and sometimes the light is so low that it appears to be lost. But it is not lost, it is still in me. I learned that the fire inside me can burn bright. That I am capable of tending to a fire that is strong and brave. A flame that crackles because it is so loud, and takes up so much space. This is the fire that helped fight for recovery. This is the fire that will continue to help me through my life. And knowing that I have this fire, is the greatest lesson I learned this year. 

To my younger self,

Hey, it’s me. I know that I look a lot older, but I promise that it’s still me. I am here to talk to you and help you out, because I know how tough life can get. I know that throughout the years, you have cried over and over about how unfair life is. It seems like endless challenges have been thrown your way, so I’m here to tell you that it will get better.

Six years old is pretty fun, huh? You love reading in your room on your favorite yellow stool. You go to the park a lot, because going on the swings makes you laugh so hard that your tummy hurts. You go to the temple with mum every Sunday, because it’s nice and calm there. You love every day, because you get to see your friends, and you get to tell stories with them. I know your absolute favourite thing to do was figure skate. That is, until you had your accident. My love, I know it hurts, but I promise you that you will heal, and later on, you’ll go skating with your friends every winter.
 
            Ten years old. You’re in Grade 5, which means you’re the oldest, and you feel the coolest. But be nice to the younger grades. Remember, they’re scared too. I know you’re wondering if what’s happening at home is normal. I know that you feel confused, and lost, but baby girl it’s not your fault. You are hurting, at home, at school, and at taekwondo. I think that’s why you’re so good at it. It helped you take all your anger away. I know you wished someone would’ve helped you. You prayed for a different family, a different mother. But no one came to your rescue. The bruises and scars were not visible. Most importantly, the heartache wasn’t either. My love, I know it hurts, but I promise you that you will heal, and later on, you’ll get the help you need.
 
            Twelve years old is pretty crazy, right? You found your largest passion in life. Dance. I know that feel so proud that your first-year dancing, is actually your first year competing as well. I know it brings you this feeling that you cannot describe. I still cannot describe this feeling. But there cannot be flowers without rain. You are so overwhelmed. The abuse at home has not stopped, and you cannot numb the pain. You think everything is your fault, so you hurt yourself. You hurt yourself until that is not enough, and the only thing you crave is protection and love. So, you tell your counsellor at school. Dad was so mad that he almost crashed the car with you in it. Mom almost bought a plane ticket back to China. My love, I know it hurts, but I promise you that you will heal, and later on, you’ll meet a woman named Rachel. She’ll help you.
 
            Sixteen years old. A lot has changed. You look different because you get your eyebrows done every other week, and you wear makeup. I know you're stressed though. High school, especially one where you major in dance, is a lot. You also compete in dance, and I am proud that you’re able to balance everything. On the outside, everything looks perfect. But on the inside, well, you have never felt worse. You have never experienced loss, or a true love until now. I’m sorry you had to experience both at once. I know her promises seemed real, and her eyes… Her eyes were beautiful. Too bad they told you lies. I know you can’t stop crying when she leaves. No one can fix the pain, not even Rachel. So, you cry, and cry, and cry. You beg her to come back. She doesn’t. I’m sorry but now I can say for sure… She is not coming back. I know it hurts. I know it hurt so much that you tried to die. I’m sorry the hospital was so lonely and cold. My love, I know it hurts, but I promise you that you will heal, and later on, she will try to come back. But you will say no this time.
 
            Eighteen. Almost thirty separate hospital visits. Almost $3000 spent on drugs. More than 365 days starving. I know it seems like it will never, ever, ever get better. You think you are meant to live in pain, because you solemnly swear that skinny is the only thing you want. You cry every night, wishing someone was there to hold your hand. You think Susan, Rachel, and every other health professional is going crazy. Everyone is going crazy but you. Oh, baby girl, please listen to them. They are right. You put yourself through so much pain. Laxatives. Starving. Fainting. Binging. Purging. Over-exercising. Cutting. Using. Dying. You swear that every treatment program is failing you. The waitlists are too long, the rules are too strict. You are lost, and scared. Do you remember this feeling from when you were twelve? You think moving back home will kill you, and it certainly felt like it was. Every argument was a reason to “never eat again”. Every night when you fall asleep, you are scared. Scared that you won’t wake up, and that you will. My love, I know it hurts, but I promise you that you will heal, and later on, you will eat chocolate, while Susan wears an avocado hat.
 
 
         

I wanted to share a reminder that I wrote to myself while I was on the subway headed to an appointment. This reminder was written out of desperation, pain, and fear. Before you read this, I need to put out a trigger warning. This reminder speaks in detail of eating disorder symptoms, substance abuse, and of physical health consequences that I endured due to the former. Please read at your discretion. 

17/09/18 
 
With only four days of restriction and drug use (270 mg of Vyvanse)... 
- I ended up not sleeping at all for two nights
- I was mentally drained 
- I was physically weak
- I was very nauseous (I had to stop walking every couple of steps to settle my stomach) 
- I couldn't stand up straight 
- I was dry heaving 
- I was very dizzy
- I was numb, emotionless
- It was very hard for me to breathe 
- I had chest pains and a very rapid heart rate
- I was cold but clammy, sweating uncomfortably 
- I couldn't feel anything, my body was numb
- I ended up in the hospital 
- I felt defeated, started believing in myself less and less
- I didn't feel like a person anymore, I was a robot 
- I wanted more drugs 

It's that easy. It is that easy to spiral. It was only four days, and you are more defeated than ever. Jen, whatever you're feeling right now, it will pass. Feeling emotions is healthy, it's needed. It can't be avoided. 

Do you remember the nausea? So nauseous that you couldn't talk, because you were that close to vomiting. Do you remember how fast your heart beat? How you had to concentrate on your breathing because you were so scared that if you missed one breath, that you would die? Do you remember the numbness? This is what scared you the most. You couldn't feel anyone's touch. Do you remember the fear? How you froze because toy thought one wrong move would simply kill you? Do you remember PICKING UP THE PHONE AND CALLING ***** FOR HELP?! Finally confessing your behaviours because your own fear beat the eating disorder's. It is not worth it. Being sick is not desired - it's painful, it's scary, it's worrisome to those around you... It's draining. 

Right now, as you are typing this, you are on the subway. You are sipping your latte slowly, because you are still so nauseous, and toy don't want to vomit all over the cart. You are concentrated on your breathing, because it's still hard to inhale deeply. Last night, you took your last pill. Now you have to face the consequences of the come down. Every single time this happens, you promise that that was the last. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. But you forget the pain, both physical and mental. Hopefully this message will remind you of it. Jen, please this is literally yourself begging you to stop. Stop being mean to your body. It serves you no good. I promise these terrible feeling will pass. You don't need to use. You don't need to restrict. Please. 

Can I just say that it is so fucking nice and refreshing to finally be able to associate dance with freedom. To associate movement with self care and love, rather than punishment. To be able to accept new opportunities and experiences, while taking breaks every now and then, and be emotionally okay with that, is truly a blessing. The love and passion I have for this beautiful art form is not a new found experience. I recognize this feeling. The feeling of moving, simply for the magic of moving. The feeling of community and safety, and never wanting to part from the studio. The feeling of pure happiness and gratification. I remember this feeling from before I was severely ill. When I was in the depths of my eating disorder, I thought I had lost this feeling. I was completely hopeless, and genuinely thought that I would never be able to get it back. Little did I know, the feeling never left. I just couldn't feel it because it was buried so deep within me, along with all my other emotions. The eating disorder was so loud and pressing, that everything else became secondary to it. My illness took up so much space, that there was no space left for the things I actually needed (dance). There came a point, where I would take a dance class and feel absolutely nothing throughout it. It was as if I was a robot, being completely controlled by my eating disorder and its' wishes.

When I was pre-maturely discharged from Toronto General Hospital, I was so lost. I knew that if I kept dancing unwillingly, I would eventually lose my relationship with dance. And if that had happened, I would lose myself. So, I took a break. I listened to my dietitian, and worked extremely hard with her. Every session, I would ask, "Can I PLEASE dance now?!". Like a child, begging for approval, hoping and hoping she would give me the okay. Eventually, we came up with an exercise contract. In order for me to dance, I would have had to have all meals and snacks (with no compensatory behaviours) 48 hours prior. Plus, I was only allowed to take a maximum of three classes a week. When my dietitian gave me the okay, I literally beamed with joy. You never really do realize how much you take something for granted, until it's taken away from you.  

The break was exactly what I needed. It gave my body time to heal, and it gave me the chance to re-evaluate why I was dancing. Was it purely for exercise? Or did I crave dance because I missed dancing? 

When I went back to dance, I took it slow. My first class was a beginner contemporary class, and I swear, I genuinely enjoyed every second of it. Not once did I think about the eating disorder. I was fully immersed in the class and choreography, so much so, that I did not body check once. I felt stronger, and my concentration had improved drastically. My endurance was better, and I no longer felt unsteady. I could move without worrying about imperfections, judgments, and most importantly, without worrying that I would collapse. After that class, I decided to stick with contemporary, because it brought back that magical feeling I had described above. Don't get me wrong, my relationship with dance is not linear. There are days where I can't see past the exercise portion of dance. On those days, I decide to sit down and reflect. I dig and dig and dig for that feeling I once felt, and it is not easy. Most times, I have to dig past my eating disorder... Past a loud, obnoxious, toxic voice in order to find the passion and love I have for dance. Although it's exhausting, there is one thing I know for sure. That feeling is not gone, it's simply inside me, and my job is to find it. 

Choreography: Ming Bo Lam 
Dancers: Izumi Ishikawa, Jennifer Li 

• To all my loves who have ever thought about, and/or attempted to take your own lives... 

I understand. I mean, I may not fully understand your individual situations and challenges, but I do understand the desperation to escape such mental suffering. I understand the feeling of utter hopelessness and emptiness in which courses through your entire being. I know your pain must be so heavy and dark that you believe your only way to experience any form of freedom is through suicide. I am sorry that you feel like you are drowning on land. My dear, I cannot make you stay on this Earth. You have to choose that for yourself. In my darkest times, not a single person could make me stay. Despite the endless hospital stays, late night conversations, and therapy sessions, I was the only person who had control of my life. I could choose to cut it short, or to keep fighting. In the end, it didn't matter who convinced me to stay. I, firstly, had to convince myself. I did not like that one bit. I always dreamed of a "hero", someone who would come into my life and save me from myself. Someone to come and take away my pain. However, I learned that the only person who can truly do that is me, and I had to give myself the chance. 

Don't get me wrong, I still relied on the people who loved me. Those who sat with me in the hospital, and never left my side. Those who held onto hope for me, when I felt like I had none left. You all know who you are. This being said, darling, look around. I know it may feel like you have no one in your corner, but I guarantee you that that is not true. I promise that there is someone who cares about you, and would be absolutely devastated in your absence. If you cannot think of anyone, know that I care, and I would be devastated. Think about what you would say to a good friend if they were feeling the way you do now. Would you want them to leave? 

I validate your heartache. Maybe you feel that your life will never get better. That everyone would be better off without you. That the sun will never rise again. At least that's what I thought. I convinced myself that I had nothing to look forward to, and that suicide was my only option. Your thoughts may be different than mine, or maybe they are similar. Regardless, I am here to tell you that those thoughts are not true. You are worth more than you may believe, and I promise that it will get better. It may not be right away, but it will come. Please live and give yourself the chance to experience genuine happiness again. 

Please talk to someone. Journal. Nap. Play with your dog. Go to a park. Watch a movie. Try to ride out all the intense emotions you may be feeling. Do what you need to do to stay. I know I cannot convince you, but please don't leave quite yet. 

Growing up, body image was something I always struggled with. I remember being in the eighth grade and thinking my thighs were too large, and my hips were too wide. I was constantly comparing my body, tearing apart every inch of my skin. I was never truly satisfied with my physical appearance. My ideal body type represented those of a child; a flat chest, narrow hips, and a thigh gap were features that I strived for. This body type is commonly glamourized in the media, and as a young girl, I was often exposed to the message that thin equalled beautiful. Overtime, this toxic message became ingrained into my head and played a large factor in the development of my eating disorder. To this day, I struggle to accept my body for what is simply is, and often hurt my body in order to achieve such unrealistic standards. 

I never considered my body to be a temple. A magnificent machine that allows me to function day to day. That allows me to laugh, to dance, to sleep, to breathe. Instead, I treated my body like a battlefield. Starving it, cutting it, drugging it, and torturing it. No matter how much weight I lost, it was never enough. Every time I crossed off a new goal weight, I lost a little bit more of myself. I was completely miserable. 

With all this being said, I want to apologize to you, body. Body, I am sorry. I am sorry I did not prioritize you. I am sorry that I did not honour your hunger and fullness cues. I am sorry for shrinking you into something you did not want to be. I am sorry for despising parts of you. I am sorry that I took you for granted. I am sorry that you were not allowed to experience the new body that's supposed to come after puberty. I am sorry that I ever apologized for your womanhood. So body, let me finally be your friend. Please forgive me. 

I spend a lot of time in hospitals... So much so, that I have visited almost every single emergency department in the GTA within the past three months. At this point, when I disclose to my support team that I have, yet again, spent the night at the hospital, they don't seem to be particularly shocked. If anything, my team would probably be more skeptical if my hospital visitations decreased, because that may mean I am FINALLY taking positive steps in my recovery. And don't get me wrong, I go to the hospital for many reasons, not solely due to medical complications. Oftentimes, I end up in the hospital involuntarily because of suicidal ideation in which surface due to hopelessness. I also find myself supporting my close friends, holding their hands and sitting beside them in waiting rooms, as they attempt to find the professional help that they so desperately need. 

A little more than a week ago, I found myself, once again, in an Uber headed towards Mount Sinai Hospital. Beforehand, I was at CAMH (Centre for Addiction and Mental Health) due to a crisis that surfaced as a result of past traumas. Near the end of my admission there, I started to feel physically ill and unstable. Chest pains, the shakes, heart palpitations, and numb limbs are not exactly a combinations of symptoms that can be shoved under the rug and forgotten about. That being said, when I arrived at Mount Sinai, I was attended to fairly quickly. Long story short, my electrolytes were imbalanced (big surprise - yes that was sarcasm folks). Consequently, I was hooked up to an IV drip for approximately six hours.

Within my eating disorder, one of the biggest things I struggle with is never feeling like I am "enough". Specifically, feeling like I am never "sick enough". Deep inside I am aware that I am unwell, however, I don't think I realize the extent to how sick I truly am. Therefore, I push my body harder, and test my limits often... Yet despite this, my eating disorder is never satisfied. My eating disorder tells me that I can always lose MORE weight, lose MORE hair, lose MORE sanity, and so forth. The sicker, the better... And it's not just me. From attending certain groups, and speaking with other individuals who are also living with an eating disorder, the theme of "not sick enough" is mundane. Health issues such as losing your period is celebrated, but heaven forbid you get spotting for half a day because that just simply means "you're not sick anymore". This example is so valuable, as it demonstrates the maliciousness of this illness, and just how irrational it can be. 

Speaking of irrationality, I want to go back to my story about my most recent hospital visit. When my nurse put in my IV, the first thought I had was "holy shit, I'm going to be fat now". For those of you struggling with an eating disorder, this probably hits home. To those who don't, let me break it down for you. The IV that was in my arm was also attached to a bag of fluid. My eating disorder is huge on restriction, and knowing exactly what goes into my body at all times - including liquids. I knew for a fact that I would be in a lot of trouble if I decided to rip my IV out, but my thoughts were spiralling downhill very quickly. Yes, even if I did gain weight, it would probably have been just water weight, and eventually it would go away. However, that's not what my eating disorder wanted to believe. So, my eating disorder opened my mouth and used my voice to ask the nurse, "How many calories are in my IV drip?". 

As soon as I saw my nurse's reaction, I realized the illogicality in my question. No "healthy" individual would have the same thought process that I had. No "healthy" individual would become obsessed with the calories in a bag of fluid. No "healthy" individual would feel as if the world was ending because of a fucking bag of fluid. Most importantly, no "healthy" individual would destroy their body for a peace of mind that is unachievable.

And in that moment, as I stared at the disbelief in my nurse's eyes, I realized that I was sick... Mentally, emotionally, physically.