Let’s Talk About: Being In RECOVERY?!

 

I’m officially IN RECOVERY. I’ve been discharged from the docs, my psych sessions have been decreased, my eating is fab and I’m getting better. I’m finally getting better… and do you know what? IT’S FUCKING GLORIOUS.

 

If you had told me three, two, one month ago that I would be where I am today… I would have laughed in your face. And then probably fainted from lack of food and energy. I can’t even describe the difference in my mindset.

And do you know what? It was my fault. I kept myself in my disorder. I thought I was trying, but I wasn’t. Every time it got a little bit hard, every time I gained a kilo, two kilos, five kilos or 100 grams, I went backwards. I didn’t TRY. I just went back to what was easy – not giving a fuck. 

But enough was enough. I was SO DAMN LUCKY to not have totally fucked up my body… My doctor said it was a miracle that all I came out with was some retarded blood sugars and vitamin deficiencies. All in all… my body coped pretty well when I starved it and tried to kill it – and for that, I’m pretty lucky. I’m lucky it even wants to trust me again. I am LUCKY.

I suppose the biggest thing that I’ve realised with recovery, is that it doesn’t stop being hard. It just gets a little bit easier, every day. Your body starts to trust you again, your brain is filled with more “you” thoughts than ED thoughts. You notice different things, your focus changes. You find the fun again, but ALL THE TIME. Sure, you can distract yourself every few days with going out with friends or doing something fun to try to reassure yourself that you’re trying to keep up appearances and try to get some fun into that blank mind of yours. But it doesn’t work like that, and as soon as I found that out, I was all the better for it. I woke up, and was HAPPY. I wasn’t happy with my weight, or the hunger in my belly, or the way that I was so sure there was more fat on my legs than yesterday.  I was happy that my cat was sitting at my feet, purring. I was happy that I knew when I walked into the kitchen, I would smell coffee. I was happy because I knew that if I looked up from my chair at the dining table and looked outside, I would see jonquils. They are my favourite flower.

My focus is so different now, my mind is happier, my body is energised and full.  And I had to do it myself. I needed the help from my psych, my friends, their acceptance, love, kind words. But I had to FIGHT. I had to FIGHT the thoughts, and NEVER give in. Every time I wanted to go to that toilet, I had to SHOUT, SCREAM, YELL at myself. And it was exhausting. But I refused to believe that if I went back to my old ways, of purging, restricting, starving and killing myself, fucking my metabolism, my nutrients, my electrolytes, the works, even thought I thought I “wasn’t sick enough” – even THEN – I refused to think that that would be easier for me. That way of life would kill me. I was killing myself, even though I didn’t think I was even sick. Even though I knew other people were sicker, were in a different stage, had a different type that would make them sicker quicker, even though people were skinnier than me. It sucked, but it was either FIGHT or DIE. It sounds dramatic, but I wish I had realised it was the truth sooner.

The only thing I can really say – to anyone – is that even if you don’t think you’re sick… you are. That way of thinking itself PROVES that you are denying it, as well as denying your poor body of everything it needs to keep your heart beating, to keep your eyes seeing, your heart loving, your feet walking.

But you can do it. You can CHOOSE RECOVERY. YOU. You have to do it yourself. Please, please, PLEASE choose recovery. You can’t remember what you are missing… but when it comes back… you’ll know that you made the right choice.

Be strong, and kick ED to the curb. Yes, you will have to work harder than you ever have. Yes, there’s a good chance you’ll hate yourself every minute of it. BUT. There is so much in life worth living for… and it’s just waiting for you to come and get it.