Recovery, or: The One Where I’m Terrified to Talk About My Eating Disorder on the Internet

(cw: disordered eating, diet culture, self-harm)

I had some kind of moment tonight.

When you’re a person of recovery, your demons develop ingenuity. Come too close to the roots of one form of addiction, and another will jump in front of a moving vehicle just to get your attention — as you enthusiastically follow it to the grave because you love it too much to let it go alone.

If there is anything at all that I believe in, it is the wisdom superhighway that is the mind-body-spirit connection. And though I may have known that something like a healing diet could have the potential to bring up some *other* things that need healing inside of oneself, I didn’t really understand. Not completely, anyway. Not to where I could have properly anticipated where I would find myself these days. Three months in and I’m off the rails altogether. I’m more tired, less motivated, and overall unhealthier than before I began. (Disclaimer: I know that statement is actually not true. It just feels true right now. So I’ll let it have tonight, because our agreement is that I get the morning.)

Anyway —

Simply put: when various life circumstances dig up your deep belief in your own unworthiness to be — be loved, be known, be remembered, be received, to just be HERE; when you hit that live wire you never knew was there, you’re gonna feel it. And when your body has been forcing itself to forget how to feel for fifteen years in favor of food, you’re gonna feed it. You’re gonna feed and feed it and the funny thing is: you’re gonna starve.

Because you start doing really strange things like:

• staring at your supplements for literal minutes on end, full glass of water in hand, unable to bring yourself to open the bottles because somehow you can’t seem to lift your own arms

• or, letting the greens in your fridge rot from neglect because your internal monologue is a ticker tape telling you over and over that only good people get to eat good food, only the living gets to take in what is alive.

• or, upon noticing how thirsty you are because of how long it’s been since you drank any water, you keep sitting where you are rather than walk the three feet to the faucet to give yourself what you know you need

• or, just straight up binge eating sugar and you know I don’t even have to explain what this one feels like, but I will tell you that my chocolate has a seductive motherfucker for a dance partner and his name is almond butter and we are at our most intimately acquainted when I feel like I’m starting to lose control.

When I miss work and lose money because of a sickness I couldn’t have planned for.

When I forget to pay the water bill and it’s two weeks late with a penalty fee.

When I have to frantically Google how to start my rental car (true story) (it was a Prius, okay?) even as I’m already 20 minutes late to work.

When I suddenly hear my heart remind me that I don’t have the ability to make somebody I chose choose me back.

When I drive all night because I only feel safe when I’m somewhere different, but disappearing this time didn’t take the pain away.

When I sit down with a stranger that I’m paying to listen to me so I can open what’s been shut and sucking me dry because I can’t keep seeing the world this way anymore

.

When you’re a person of recovery, these things aren’t just what happen to you; these things are who you are. Or at least that’s what they tell you as they try to rename you: Weak. Irresponsible. Stupid. Unlovable. Forgettable. Afraid.

And when you’re a person of recovery, you’ve got a well-worn path of self harm to serve as your escape route the moment you hear the whisper of these words coming your way. Pick your poison: Netflix. Tortilla chips. Casual sex. An entire bottle of wine. Codependency. Scrolling through Instagram for an hour and a half. Ice cream. Tinder. Romance novels. Weed.

And here I am, three months after beginning my “healing diet” just now realizing that I don’t actually believe I’m allowed to be healed. Because I don’t actually believe I’m worthy of becoming and being whole. And all of my efforts up to now have been to try and move towards worthy — rather than from it. To prove to myself, and anyone else I imagine to be watching, that somehow this result can be achieved by shutting down everything that makes me human. Because human is who she left. Human is who he violated. Human is who they forgot. And don’t you dare forget it.

But tonight I had some kind of moment. Tonight I came home tired, but awake. This subtle voice of decision has been creeping in for the past few days, daring me to just try. Maybe just see what would happen if I decided I was already enough. That I’ve never been anything but. That I was me before any of the rest of this and maybe life just lied. A lot. That whatever it is I’m looking for — it’s already in me. That whoever it is I’m looking for — baby, you already are.

Tonight I walked through my front door shouldering beliefs of physical inadequacy, financial stress, and emotional immaturity. And I wanted to choose that path. I wanted to get myself lost in something. I wanted to binge. I wanted to disconnect. I wanted to self-sabotage just for the sake of proving to myself that I’m actually not worthy of love and belonging. Because I’ve been taught my set point should be shame so I wanted to return to it, quickly. But what I saw in my living room didn’t let me get there.

My roommate had hung a wreath, garland, string lights, and three red stockings on our fireplace. What she didn’t know is that all day I had been bumming around inside of my brain over what will be another year finding me unable to afford any sort of Christmas decorations for whatever place I call home. Combine that arguably tiny sadness with EVERYTHING else I just said, and it gets a hell of a lot bigger until it resembles a complicated version of grief and regret that starts to swallow you whole.

But this — this one act, this unassuming decision to do for our home something I had been carrying guilt over not being able to do myself. This gentle reminder that I am not on this planet to go it alone, goddammit. Not anymore…

I immediately burst into tears. And that very moment that my spirit came back into my body by way of holding holy space for my emotions, I became aware of myself and my body in a way I haven’t been in weeks. I heard that I wasn’t hungry. I heard that I wasn’t alone. And I heard a voice speak up and say, “Someone loved you enough to do this for you. So go drink some damn water.”

When you are a person of recovery, sometimes it takes someone else loving you to remind you how to love yourself. What it looks like, what it sounds like, how it tastes. That loving yourself looks like coming home to yourself, every minute of every day and taking every day one minute at a time. Sometimes it looks like winning. Sometimes it looks like just barely being brave enough to get out of bed and try. But always, it looks like asking. It looks like opening. It looks like letting in.

People of Recovery: I know it’s a terrifying gamble to consider. I know sometimes you just want to scream about all of the times you’ve had to rebuild and you’re just too tired anymore, but please remember it won’t always look like winning. It will almost always look like just barely being brave enough to get out of bed and try and that is enough. You are enough. We can be enough together, but only if you let us love you. Please never stop asking. Please never stop opening. Please never ever stop letting us in. It is an honor to see you.

And slowly, slowly I am learning — it is an honor to be seen.

-written December 4, 2015