I read a lot.
I often read the stories of others in my situation. I
read their stories of struggle, their stories of recovery, their transition
stories. Stories about their frustrations, hopes, fears, dreams. These stories
made me sad, empathetic, understanding, inspired, and most of all confused.
Especially the stories of those who live a life of recovery. I would read their
story, smile, and then become perplexed with the fact that I didn’t know their
secret. They talk about recovery, a recovered life, how it is all so exciting.
They love their bodies, eat what they want, celebrate with friends, family, and
food, and live life to the fullest.
How did they get there?
How do I get there?
For the longest time I was fighting blind. I did
what I had to because I had to. I ate the food, planned the meal times, went to
the therapy sessions, worked my butt off… But for what? I told myself it was
all “to get better”, but I was frustrated. I really had no idea what the fuck “better”
was. I was striving to recover from a life of soul crushing hopelessness to
something that was supposedly sunshine and rainbows for the majority of the
time. How would I know when I got there? Where was this place anyway? What in
the good sweet name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph was I working toward? What is “recovery”?
I’m not exactly sure when it hit me. I guess I’ve
been toying with the idea for a little while now. I became so sick of the meal
plans (yet I keep up with them because it’s what needs to happen right now),
but I was beginning to taste freedom. Not measuring entire meals, changing meal
plans on the fly, learning to eat when I’m hungry and stop when I’m full,
trying food that I would have previously considered off limits (like organic
chocolate, or munching on food as I prepare a meal and not counting it in my
day), or planning my meals around my activities, not my activities around my
meals, playing guitar, creating a piece of art, applying for a job, acquiring
an internship. These little tastes of freedom started happening more and more, and I liked
it. All of a sudden I was pretty well hit with a sack of bricks, or hammers or
potatoes… Something to that effect. “This is what recovery is, damnit!” says
whatever is beating me with this bag of heavy objects. “You matter!” *WHACK* “You
won’t get fat if you have a piece of chocolate, or go to the gym three times a
week instead of four!” *SMACK* “You won’t die if you don’t weigh yourself!”
*WAH-BAM* “You can like aspects of your body for what they do, not what they
look like!” *THWACK*. Surprisingly, after all of this abuse, I felt very
enlightened and excited. My mind has been racing since this happened. I can’t
sleep, and sometimes I smile to myself. It’s a really scary thought… “I matter”.
I say it out loud. A lot. It reminds me that I am here. Right now. A human
being who doesn’t have to live within these walls.
I know what I’m fighting toward.
I know what it is I need to do.
And I’m gonna fucking get it.
I was told by many that recovery is like climing a
mountain, or a ladder to a really tall slide. The top is when you reach that
epiphany moment. All you need to do now is sit down and enjoy the ride. I
really do get it when people say “trust the process”. I get it. I understand. I
know what recovery looks like, and I’m going to own that shit.
Now. I’m scared to death, don’t get me wrong. I’m teetering
on the edge of the mountain, ready to jump. I’m tentatively sitting on the
slide, edging my way down. I’ve made progress since my Ah ha moment, progress
like not weighing or measuring my breakfast meal as well as my dinner meal,
eating when I want to, giving into cravings (last night I had a square of
chocolate because I wanted it. My
craving was satisfied, I didn’t blow up like a balloon, and I moved on), working
out when I want to for how long I want to, allowing myself more rest because I
am entitled to being “lazy” and doing fuck all, smiling, and as of today, not
writing in my workout log any more. I used to keep the log to make sure I wasn’t
overdoing it when I was cleared for exercise. It was also a handy place to
write down my favorite workouts. Now that I’m at a place where I can workout at
my leisure, I really see no sense in controlling myself through planning
workouts, feeling the need to achieve a certain number of exercises or sessions
in the run of a week, or logging my exercise every day. It’s just as bad as
counting the calories in a sense. Another control mechanism that I shed in
order to say goodbye to dear old Eddie for good.
This Thursday I am going to my cabin for the long
weekend. I will not weigh myself for four days in a row, I will do what I want
when I want to, and most importantly I will REST. I am fucking entitled to it
because I matter (ah, that feels so nice to say). I want to hike, do yoga,
bike, go on a whale watching cruise. I will do these things, but I will not feel
compelled to exercise, to get in a certain amount of kilometers when I bike. I
will not set alarms. I will sleep in, and I will be awesome. Believe it or not,
this all involves an extreme amount of effort. I really have to work at myself
to relax. It’s a battle in my head, but it’ll come naturally eventually.
So there you have it, my Ah ha moment and a bit of
an update all wrapped into one. On a completely unrelated note, I am obsessed
with Lady Gaga’s new single, “Applause”. It’s been on repeat, no lies.
So. Enjoy your week, fellow recovery warriors,
friends, amigos, brethren, folks… You get the picture. You support never ceases
to amaze me.
Seriously.
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