Slow and Steady

I had this picture in my head of what treatment would be like this time. Since it was the first time I actually wanted to get better, I assumed the experience would go something like this: I would show up, understanding all the rules and accepting them without question. I would impress all the staff with my knowledge and insight, and gain their praise for my willingness and dedication. I would eat the prescribed amount, never questioning it, knowing that it was what my body needed. I would sail on through, getting out after four weeks, never to struggle again.

Boy was I delusional. Here's a more accurate picture of what transpired. I arrived, shell-shocked and clinging to my husband like a spider monkey. I tried to convince him, as he was getting in the car to leave, that this was all a big misunderstanding and he should just take me home with him. I looked at my first meal with great scrutiny, analyzing the calorie count and mentally murdering the dietitian who prescribed it. I walked into my first therapy session absolutely terrified, declaring that I was unable to cry and therefore could not partake in whatever "healing" was deemed necessary for me. I got mad. I yelled and fumed and swore. I crossed my arms and flatly refused some of the food. When my meal plan was increased (as it would be many times), I wrote scathing notes to my dietitian. Despite my previous admonition, I did cry. A lot. Sobbed. Heaved, even. I talked about things I haven't thought about in years. Those four easy weeks turned into ten agonizing ones. When I finally did get "out," I had to recognize that my healing had only just begun.

Recovery isn't neat and tidy. Rather, it's messy, excruciating, and painfully slow. I have been home for two and a half weeks now, attending my outpatient program five days a week, and to be honest I am more mentally exhausted than I ever have been. As I told my therapist a few days ago, "I am afraid of going backward, afraid of going forward, and miserable where I am." True, my eating disordered behaviors are under control; tomorrow will mark three months (!) since I have acted out by binging and purging, restricting, or over-exercising. While I recognize that as a true victory, I also know that the real work is only just starting. Now I am digging into the reasons I have abused myself for so many years, and frankly, it sucks. I don't enjoy that kind of brutally honest self-analysis. It hurts.

When I get discouraged by the slowness of my progress (which is, ummm, daily), I have to remind myself that it took me a lifetime to get as sick as I was. Healing is not going to take place overnight. It truly is one day at a time. And, for the first time, I see that I don't have to do it alone. For that I am very grateful.