I got a phone call last week from the Eating Recovery Center in Denver, CO. Pam, the friendly alumni coordinator, reminded me that it had been a year since my discharge. She congratulated me and asked how I was doing. "I'm doing really well," I told her. And I spoke the truth.
"I'm doing really well" was the truth. The actual TRUTH. I meant it. It wasn't the flat-out lie it has been so many times before. It wasn't crippling denial. It wasn't the diversion from my anorexic life I've attempted more often than I care to admit. I actually AM doing really well.
A year in recovery. Barring pregnancy and nursing (which gave me a necessary reprieve from eating disordered behaviors but didn't represent meaningful change), I have never gone this long without relying on my obsessive/compulsive need to be thin. I eat what I need to eat every day. I see my therapist weekly. I see my dietitian monthly. I visit my cardiologist and medical doctor when needed. I go clothes shopping and grocery shopping. I work. I engage in meaningful relationships with my husband, my children, my extended family, my friends. I do yoga and take walks and I avoid the gym like the plague. I go out to lunch with people on low carb/gluten free/no fat/no foods that are brown diets and I still eat what I need to eat in order to thrive. My body is the same size it was when I came home from Denver. I wear the same clothes and follow the same meal plan. I have neither exploded into obesity nor withered back into my old sick body. I have simply sustained health. Wow.
Tomorrow marks the beginning of Eating Disorders Awareness Week, and as Pam reminded me, I can count myself as a success story. A SURVIVAL story. After 17 years (seventeen. Holy shit.) years of bondage, I live free of my oppressor. It's an astonishing and humbling feat. But it hasn't been easy.
I don't want this to be another post extolling the virtues and joys of recovery. While my year in remission from anorexia has given me countless experiences for which to be immeasurably thankful, it has been hard. Not "I don't feel like doing the laundry today" hard. Really, really, really difficult. I have made many mistakes. I have plain old fucked up. I have said things that have hurt people I love deeply. I have dropped the ball a few times. I have been selfish. I have stood in a department store and thought, "If I fit into a size _ I'll kill myself." I have sat in restaurants and passed over things that sounded really yummy because they were too scary. I have faced life challenges that gave me every reason to dive back into my disorder: medical problems, relationship drama, plain old overwhelming stress. I have gazed into the mirror and marveled at how dramatically my body has changed.
But I kept on going. I had those negative thoughts (I'm so fat, I'm disgusting, I'm a failure), recognized them as poisonous lies, and kept on eating. I went on the best family vacation of my life, a vacation during which I was able to see, hear, smell, touch, and taste amazing things with the people I love most, and actually create memories. I faced my fears, set boundaries that needed to be set, and spoke my peace. I apologized when I did wrong and asked for forgiveness. I forgave myself. I recognized my own humanity and saw the humanity around me. I bought clothes that fit, not clothes that would fit when I lost more weight. I hugged my husband and let him hold me, hold my body with all its curves. I cuddled my children. I got a puppy, a delightful little creature who couldn't give a flying fuck what my dress size is.
My point is this: I am living recovery. It's not easy; in fact, sometimes it's downright agonizing. I actually have to feel all that nasty stuff I spent almost two decades avoiding. But it's worth it. Those feelings? Fear, pain, guilt, loneliness, anger, shame? They serve a purpose. When I'm able to acknowledge them and ride them out, I end up better for having done so. I learn. I grow. I wake up every day excited for what lies ahead. I no longer wake to the suffocating dread of what the scale will say when I step upon it. Scale? Screw that shit, it's my doctor's job to keep track of my weight, not mine. I no longer face every meal with the sense of impending dread usually reserved for a visit to the oncologist. I am living free. You can too. But first you must face the thing that scares you most. The only way out is through. I can't wait to see you on the other side.
