There seems to have been something that has been clinging on to me for the last few weeks, the kind of sadness that feels like it’s putting so much pressure on your heart that as a result it’s simply going to give up and stop beating. I stopped wanting recovery. I stopped wanting the numbers to go up and my body to heal. Maybe then I could have had an explanation for why I felt so crappy…and if I’m honest, the whole reaction to seeing my mum getting weighed a couple of weeks back is still taking up space in the back of my mind. My appointment yesterday was hard. I sat there with the thoughts in my head screaming “I can’t tell you this. I can’t talk about it. The world will cease to exist if I put words to the things I have spent the last 15 years staying silent about.” By the time I got into the office, my eyes were burning with tears that I could not let out and I all I wanted was to go home to bed and stay there.
It hung around for the rest of the day, tipped everything a little off-balance until I finally got home where I could indulge in my misery. Who had I been trying to fool? How could I recover from not just this but from everything? I’m trying to restore something in my life but it’s something that I’ve never experienced. I don’t know what it means to be at peace with myself, nor do I know what it feels like to be content. The evidence for things not getting better is more concrete than the idea of them getting better, but for some reason I still persist. There was a conversation I had with myself last night which stopped me long enough to quit being pissed and acknowledge how far I’ve come. The idea that I would even make it to this year at one point would have been laughable. It’s true that recovery does not come naturally to me, there wasn’t a moment when I flung myself around the concept and held on for dear life, it came as a slow burn, so faint that it hasn’t been noticeable till I stopped. All those questions and frustrations of “Why am I not recovering? Why am I still letting this thing dictate my life?” finally had an answer. I am recovering, even on the days when it feels like I’m not, I still make the choice to get up and eat. I still make myself get dressed and leave the house and interact with other people. So what that I may not be as far as I want, or meeting the expectations that I put on myself, I’m still doing it. Last year there was no future, every time I got near the front door I fell in to a panic attack, my body was giving up, my mind had already given up and I was just waiting. That’s all I was doing last year…waiting for something that I had been hoping for since I was 14 years old. An ending. I remembered the last time I tried to end my life, how, had help broke down my door a couple of minutes later it would have been too late and they would not have been able to bring me back. Everyday since then I hated that they saved me, and hated them as well. I couldn’t see beyond them prolonging the hurt that I was going through. If I knew who those people were now I would thank them for giving me a chance to be better and to know happiness.
It’s been six years since I had to drop out of University, and six years since I have dared to entertain the idea of a future. I go back on Monday. I had lost hope and it didn’t matter how many people told me that I had promise, or so much going for me if I could just stop destroying myself. I haven’t quite stopped but I’m willing to give myself every chance that I have to succeed. That means leaving the disorder behind, as heart-breaking as that may feel right now. There is no other way, not for what I want, what I’ve always wanted…to be free.