How Soon We Forget

Those of you who have given birth will understand this phenomenon: during the process of bearing a child, you're overwhelmed with pain, fear, and desperation. The physical torment is unlike anything you've ever experienced. Your body is being ripped in two. All you can focus on is the hope for an end to the hurt. Fast forward a year, and your memory paints a picture of a brief period of struggle followed by the greatest joy of your life. You forget the pain, you remember the greatness.

That's the benefit of a tricky memory. The slipperiness has a dark side, though. I imagine it happens with any addiction; a sober alcoholic may reminisce about the sudden release of anxiety that follows an empty glass. An addict may remember with relish the ecstasy immediately after a hit. A compulsive gambler may delight in the thought of the adrenaline burst of throwing the dice at the craps table. So too do I fall into the trap of dwelling on the good while editing out the crippling.

A year ago I was 94 lbs. I'm 5'8 and have birthed three children, so this was not a physiological high point for me. When I look at pictures from this time last year, I see a very, very thin woman... and I am jealous. Jealous of myself. Jealous of the place I was in, bitter that I'm not there now. I look at the photographs then look in the mirror then spend a very, very long time feeling like shit. Because my memory is broken. I remember the delight of seeing the scale dip lower every morning. I remember the head rush of hunger. I remember the tremendous sense of superiority I felt on the beach, looking at childless high school students who weren't as thin as I was.

I have a much harder time remembering what was really happening a year ago. My heart struggled to beat regularly. I could only walk short distances. I passed out. My husband couldn't stand to be around me. I was mean to my children. I didn't want to have anything to do with the people who loved me because I rejected their concern. I cared more about the calories in a tomato than about the welfare of my family. I was barely a shadow of myself. I was dying, and furthermore, I was angry that I hadn't died already. My disease had full hold, and I was on a runaway train.

How soon we forget. Those of us in recovery (from anorexia and from all other addictive, compulsive disorders) reach a point where we are far enough away from our destructive behaviors to function normally, but still close enough to hold onto their imagined benefits. Like the mother who forgets the pain of childbirth and focuses on the joy of parenthood, we forget the torture of our disease and focus on the illusion of happiness it gave us.

That's what it is, though: an illusion. Nothing more. Losing thirty pounds will not make me happier (despite my mind's best efforts to convince me otherwise), it will just make me dead. Taking a drink after a long dry spell will not take the edge off, it will just bring you back to the misery you worked so hard to get away from. Freebasing cocaine may seem like a way to get a thrill in an otherwise mundane world, but it will find you penniless and alone before you know it. Heading to the casino will be exciting at first, until you've lost your rent money and don't know what you're going to do to keep the lights on.

Memory is indeed a tricky thing. We have the power to bring it into perspective, though. Let us remind each other of reality. Let us not allow each other to fall into the trap of airbrushed reminiscence. We can stay strong together. Sobriety can be hard. It can be painful, it can be lonesome, and hell, it can be downright boring. But it is the price we pay to stay alive, and it's worth it. Walk the path with me, will you?