Some of my friends think that I should move on.
Some of my family worry that I’m clinging to the past.
My doctor suggests that I might be making it harder for myself; my counsellor imagines me with a career, a husband and two kids, and thinks I shouldn’t waste another moment; my head is sick to death of the whole subject –
But I am not ready to let it go, just yet.
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I have been feeling a little sick over the past few days.
This is not a good thing.
The last time I was sick was the big d-day; the final swansong before I waved goodbye to a friend that I knew was killing me.
I realised, of course, that there’d be times when I might be ill, or instances when I’d find myself bending over the toilet again, whether I liked it or not; but, I didn’t anticipate the sudden stirring of memories that the once familiar taste of bile would evoke.
Like a horror film, with the flash-lighted-frozen-framed images getting closer and closer, the throbbing in my neck and the somersaulting of my stomach have triggered a slideshow in my head –
And it starts like this.
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There are a few things that I would like to take the opportunity to leave behind in 2009, starting with a strange little habit that I have of separating each meal into its constituent food group and then knocking them off, one at a time, in the prescribed order: green (vegetable), orange (carbohydrate), red (protein).
Whilst New Years is traditionally about making new resolutions, I’ve decided that breaking old ones is equally acceptable; and, there are a few lurking habits that I’d like to shrug off as the clock strikes midnight –
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Sometimes, when I’ve had a bad day or I’m tired of fighting, then the temptation to go back is hard to resist and I can feel myself digging my heels in, childlike, and throwing a bit of a mental tantrum, because it’s not fair that I can’t have the thing that will make me feel better and it’s so much easier for everyone else –
And, when this happens, I have to take myself in hand, like you would with a petulant teenager, and explain that life isn’t always fair, and that the things that we want are not always the things that are good for us.
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Today, I was discharged from mental health services.
It is a little scary. They have been looking after me for rather a long time.
This is the first time we’ve done it properly. No fizzling out or abrupt terminations or running from the radar. We have, instead, reached a nice ending and said goodbye as people.
I will be looking after myself from this point on -
Which is a little scary (after being looked after for so long) and feels a little vulnerable (although it’s cause for celebration) and has been a tad unsettling (even though I’ve been on track for a while now) –
- and strangely quiet because I am on my own again –
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Sometimes, getting better is far scarier than staying ill.
Sometimes, the apprehension and the expectation and the uncertainty can stop you from changing your life. We’re far more comfortable with what we know –
It will be okay.
It might feel scary, but you’ll be okay.
There are no certainties – but it will not be as bad as you expect.
It just takes a little courage and a few deep breaths; and, when you’ve got through the first challenges, you’ll be looking back and wondering what took you so long –
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“This is the Hour of Lead—
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow—
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—”
Extract from Emily Dickinson
This is my liberation.
This is my time to feel alive.
It’s been a long time coming, but I’m singing now and I’m holding onto each golden moment.
This is my emancipation, my thawing.
This is finding my voice when it had been taken and recovering my self when it got lost. This is coming up for air –
Piece by piece, I am slowly letting go.
Step by slow step, I am gradually saying goodbye.
It is a long and painful process. I have been here before, but not this far down the road, not this close to freedom, not this scared and strangely empty.
When you’re sick, you want to get better.
Unfortunately, it’s rarely that straightforward with an eating disorder. It’s never just an illness – it takes a while to even recognise it in this guise – and it’s hard to work out whether it’s a friend or an enemy.
Because it’s both.
The paradox screws with your head.
The dichotomy makes moving on and getting better a real challenge.
Ironically, it’s also the key to recovery.
I think I may have mistaken concern for care, confused professional curiosity with personal interest. I think I may have become accustomed to being looked after, grown used to the attention.
There’s nothing like a chronic eating disorder to rally up a medical army. It does a great job of ensuring that you’re well looked after, takes you right back to a parent child scenario – and it’s not hard to guess which seat you’re occupying.
It feels like a safer place to be. It feels like you’re special.
For a while. But then, like a child throwing a tantrum, you find yourself cranking up the volume. It’s not always a conscious thing – you’ve just got to work that little bit harder to get the same response.
I had been hoping for the white dove letting go elation. The release of a balloon. A ceremonial burning.
I was expecting the worst. A painful wrenching. A terrifying step in the dark.
It has been like a tick that I have been trying to shrug off.
A recurring theme.
It has been a whole mishmash of emotions. A turbulent and unpredictable journey. A snail’s pace edging towards recovery.
Weight.
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