I just finished writing my "life story," with an emphasis on the events that led to my eating disorder. In the beginning, it was really hard. It's not fun to revisit all of the traumatic events that warped your psyche. It's not fun to write the words on paper that you rarely ever speak out loud. It's not fun to remember.
However, when I got into the meat of my illness, my attitude towards the project changed. As I detailed the extremely disturbing behaviors of a very sick person, I started to feel better. Not because the memories were pleasant; they were anything but. Rather, sometimes it's nice to be reminded of how far you've come.
Sure, I still struggle with my share of unhealthy thoughts. But I'm lightyears away from being the girl who threw up into garbage bags and hid the bags in the closet. I'm not the perfect picture of recovery, but I'm not sick anymore, and that's enough for now.
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