healing, never healed

I've been working on myself. Trying to fix my flaws and combat destructive thought patterns before they destroy me. I've recently begun this thing where when something triggers certain emotions or certain thoughts, I'll see a second version of myself feeling those things. I split my thoughts into two so I can allow part of me to feel those things, and the other part of me to comfort her. This way, I can accept more fully that people are never completely fine or "better". Today I had a brief experience where I was able to utilise this newfound coping mechanism while also relearning a truth it seems I have been trying to avoid.

Briefly, first: a few days ago I got to do a photo shoot with a friend of mine who is sort of a professional photographer. He posts pictures on his instagram all the time of other people he has taken pictures of, whether it be for senior pictures or just random shoots. And today he posted a picture of this really gorgeous girl with a caption introducing her. He said who she was, that they'd known each other for a long time, that she was someone he'd love to shoot with again and again, that she's amazing, and that she is going to be a famous ballet dancer someday.

I read that, and my chest caved in. My mind kept zeroing in on those different phrases. "Amazing. Could shoot with her again and again. Going to be a famous ballet dancer someday." Going to be a famous ballet dancer someday.

It hurt. Goodness, why does it still hurt? It's been over a year since I left. I've grown. I've learned things about myself. I have fat on my body and I manage to not hate myself. But those words, that thin and beautiful girl. I'm not healed. The scars ballet left may not be fresh and bleeding anymore, but the scabs haven't even formed properly yet. So I saw that picture and I read those words and had to detach my strain of thought almost immediately. I had to let those thoughts live on in part of me, but not all of me.

The other Kate fixated on those words and the girl's face, on her arms and height and chest and stomach. The other Kate thought of her own weight and size and chest and stomach and arms and hips and calves and feet. She dragged memories of dance up from the abyss of our mind and held them to her heart and cried. I held this other me while she sobbed and mumbled about not being good enough and how that should have been her. How dancing was all she wanted but she would never be as thin or as beautiful as this other girl. I felt physically nauseous, as the mere thought of being fat made me want to throw up. To vomit up everything so I could give this sobbing Kate in my mind what she so clearly needed. But I couldn't. I just held her and let her cry. I let her hate herself and hate the thin and beautiful girl she doesn't even know. I stroked her hair and hugged her tightly because I love her. She is flawed and she is sensitive and she is cruel and she is tired, and I love her.