I am learning how to exercise – in moderation.
I am exploring whether it’s down to genes – or open to all.
Whether it is possible to enjoy the experience – without feeling obliged.
The gym is therefore out, although I’ve given it a shot. As is anything that results in injury; involves excessive dirt or does not consider the unstable state of the UK’s climate.
After veering from one extreme to the other, I’m now playing it safe and taking it slow; and, I’m learning from the experience.
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I thought that I’d have to be absolutely certain that I wanted to get better before I could make the leap.
I waited, and waited … and waited, to reach a head space where all the big changes felt better; where recovery felt easy and exciting and a little less daunting.
It didn’t happen.
I thought that someone or something could make it easier. That this EDU or that psychiatrist or that day and this outfit would change everything, it was just a case of finding the right someone something….
No.
Because only I had the answer.
And the realisation hit me like a sledge-hammer.
People often say that acknowledgement is the first step to recovery. It means you’re half way there.
I beg to disagree.
Admitting that you’ve got an eating disorder is a step on the way to recovery. Admitting that you’re ill is a turning point. And there’s a difference.
I owned up to my eating disorder pretty early on. I didn’t get the illness bit quite so quickly. For a while, the eating disorder was a big character flaw; then, a badge of pride; for many years, my identity – but rarely an illness.
You don’t catch an eating disorder like you catch the flu. There’s an element of choice, however subconscious, that complicates everything. That makes it harder to consider an eating disorder as an illness – and not a lifestyle choice or a fad or a prolonged and painful suicide.
You could argue any of the latter quite easily – but they’re irrelevant. If you want to get better, you’ve got to realise that you’re ill.
You’ve got to move beyond the blame and the embarrassment and the guilt – and realise that, when you’re ill, you need to get better.
The transition between illness and recovery can be a little uncomfortable.
There’s a particularly awkward stage when your head is still on auto-repeat – but you’re trying to ignore the programme.
Where you’re so consumed by the process that you don’t have the headspace – or the inclination – to do any of the things that you’re looking forward to doing a little further down the line.
Where the agenda is simple: get through the day.
It doesn’t last – although it can feel like a lifetime – but it helps when you can escape into other things for a little while.
Welcome to the wonderful world of ‘distractions’ – the things you do to keep yourself busy when you’re thinking about things that you shouldn’t be thinking about.
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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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