There are moments throughout the day where I think to myself that maybe I need to try again. Give this recovery thing another go and see if I have the strength to take some steps forward. Those moments however are brief and then a wave hits me, the despair and the futility of this continuous effort of attempting to not let this disorder destroy me sets in. I curl up, quite literally and realise that I do not have anything left. There is no more raging anger towards it, there is no belief that I do not deserve this, there is no hope for something more. I feel resigned that this is my life but equally I do not want it to end it. I don’t know what to do with those two opposing bits of information. If I continue to leave it, although it’s not that bad at the moment, my body will become weaker until eventually it has no other option but to fail. I’m under no illusion that what I am doing isn’t dangerous. Every day of restriction puts the body under a tremendous amount of stress. The way the body has to adapt to that in order to survive puts it under further stress. There is nothing quiet or easy or safe about starvation. Yet do I have the energy to really care about the impact it has on my day to day life? Do I care about the fact that I don’t want to socialise anymore or that I have absolutely no energy? Does it hurt that I am missing out, that I can’t meet friends for lunch or that I am barely functioning? No…not really. I’m aware that it should but it really doesn’t.
It’s coming up to 18 years of this. 18 years of striving and fighting and sinking and hoping and failing…and what do I have at the end of it? The fact that I cannot stop destroying myself, even when I thought there was nothing left to destroy, even though I don’t have the heart for it or the desire. It’s like it’s something I am simply programmed to do because fundamentally I think I’m worth less than shit.
I hope your day has been kind to you.