Growing up, I was always extremely overweight. Mounds of fat piled on my midsection, and my flabby arms jiggled as I walked to the fridge for yet another snack to make me feel less alone. That feeling of loneliness has been with me for as long as I can remember. No matter how many loved ones surrounded me, I still felt a deep sense of isolation. For the longest time, food was my answer. I could eat my way through any emotion and somehow escape.

Then one day, Clarence bought a piece of property in my mind that wasn’t for sale and set up camp. I believe Clarence had been there long before I noticed him, but by the age of 24, I could no longer ignore him. I had been sober for a little over a year and had begun to fully grasp how my mind worked.

There was a boy, the closest thing to a relationship I’d ever had, though he was far from one. When I heard he was in a relationship with someone from Massachusetts, Clarence's voice became impossible to ignore.

He told me that if I didn’t push myself past my limits, I would always be abandoned and never find love. He had me grab at the fat on my body, displacing it to imagine what I’d look like without it. He made me Google rib removal surgery to shrink my body’s circumference. Clarence didn’t appear when I was pushing 220 pounds but when I had gotten down to 167, without amphetamines, through sheer force of psychotic thinking I disguised to others as will power. Three hours a day at the gym in Bushwick. Entire days without a single calorie. Clarence flared up at my smallest and loudest when I should have been free of him.

One day, I found myself in a yoga studio somewhere between Midtown and Chelsea, attending a breathwork class. It was something my 24-year-old self never imagined doing. Where was the 6’2” European model with a nine-inch cock offering me a bump of cocaine? Instead, I was in my second year of sobriety, seeking clarity.

This wasn’t my first breathwork class, it was my third. During my second class, I’d felt the presence of a figure standing over me, which a friend later identified as her deceased father visiting me. But this class was different.

As I lay there, pumping oxygen through my body, I felt parts of me go numb, tingling like when you take too much ecstasy at a music festival in Sydney. With my eyes closed, I saw a face levitating above me. I don’t know if it was a younger me, an older me, a vision of God, or a stranger, but it was male.

Then I felt something holding my wrists firmly to the ground. I couldn’t move them. The force was stronger than me. I tried to fight, but it was no use. All I kept hearing was:

• “Just let go.”

• “Please stop fighting. You’re exhausting yourself.”

• “Release, and all will be okay.”

• “You’re not in control.”

• “Just stop.”

When the instructor touched my ankles to signal the session had ended, I realized everyone else was already sitting up. Terrified and confused, I left the studio, turned off my phone, and went to the nearest Outback Steakhouse for comfort food to process what had happened.

For months, I had worn a rose quartz chakra necklace that I’d bought in the West Village, hoping it would unlock self-love and ease the pain of Clarence. The night after that breathwork class, I woke up to find the necklace had fallen off in my sleep and broken in half. I chalked it up to cheap craftsmanship, until the next day at hot yoga in Soho.

Before the class, I’d eaten only a Quest bar, consumed a ton of caffeine, and completed two SoulCycle classes. As we moved through heart-opening poses in a dimly lit room, my heart began pounding faster and faster. Closing my eyes, I saw a light. It grew brighter and brighter, pulling me toward it.

I shook my head and opened my eyes, unsure of what was happening. Was I about to faint? For what felt like an eternity, though it was probably three minutes, I debated whether to fall into the light or avoid it entirely. Still, to this day, I wonder what would have happened if I’d chased that brightness.

I excused myself to get some water and cool air, escaping the faint. When I returned, I stayed in child’s pose, trying to process the breathwork, the broken necklace, and the near encounter with the light.

Something or someone was trying to tell me to let go. Clarence was suffocating me. I couldn’t let him win if I wanted to continue living. A close friend of mine…her aunt died of a heart attack at a young age because of her eating disorder.

Clarence still visits often, but I tell him to fuck off or try to drown him out with music or a run. Yet he’s persistent. He whispers that I’m single at 25 because of how my body looks. He tells me not to eat, to skip rest days, to burn myself out at SoulCycle and bootcamp classes. He has me Googling lip flips, fat reduction treatments, and macro counting at 3 a.m. Clarence is relentless.

At dinner with my dad, I learned that my great-grandfather’s name was Clarence, a man known for being cruel. My great-grandfather’s wife went to work one day, and was never heard from again. Rumor has it, her husband had her “taken care of.” Coincidence or not, it’s hard not to wonder if some part of his energy lingers in me.

Clarence is my mind’s way of controlling the loneliness that has been amplified by abandonment and rejection. He preys on my pain. The first boy I ever kissed called it a mistake. The boy who took my virginity accused me of rape the next day via iMessage.

I’ve spent years trying to manipulate men into loving me, thinking it would silence Clarence. But no matter who I sleep with, how much muscle I gain, how many pounds I lose, Clarence is never satisfied. I can never bring enough to his altar.

Three weeks ago, I deleted all my dating apps (how many times have we all done that?). Clarence is screaming at me constantly, but I refuse to listen anymore. He didn’t help me find love, so why should I let him dictate my life?