Ambivalence

Webster's defines ambivalence as "simultaneous and contradictory attitudes or feelings (such as attraction and repulsion) toward an object, person, or action."

"Ambivalent" is perhaps the most accurate description of my feelings toward the recovery process. On the one hand, I am deeply committed to doing all I can to overcome my disease. I recognize its threat, I acknowledge its destructive power in my life, and I want to be rid of it for good. On the other hand, it makes me feel better. It is comfortable and safe and secure, and I don't want to live without it. Simultaneous and contradictory attitudes indeed.

This has weighed heavily on my mind in the past few days, as I have been given a hefty ultimatum by my treatment team. To sum up, it's pretty much "shape up or ship out." My weight has not been stable, and unless I take drastic and immediate action to rectify the situation, I will be discharged from outpatient treatment with a recommendation for higher-level care. I can't go back in-patient; I have neither the money nor the time. So I have to get my act together and do everything I'm told, regardless of how miserable it makes me. "I'll tell you right now, I'm going to be a raging bitch for the next couple weeks," I told my therapist. "That's okay," she replied, "I can treat a bitch, but I can't treat a ghost." Touche.

And so I must put my nose to the grindstone and slog through the inevitable grief that comes with recovery. I must take it day by day, meal by meal, doing the next right thing every time I can. I am not happy about it. I am not even "okay" with it. But it is necessary, in that painful, unpleasant way a root canal is necessary. I will do it. But I will need help.