Thursday night Process group~ There sits the girl in the corner trying unsuccessfully
to stifle her sobs, openly stating how FAT she is…how much food she has to eat…how badly
she wants to be off of restoration~ She screams, she is just done.
She is so in
her disorder.
It is so sad to see. Triggering as hell. But it brings me right
back. I have so been there. I know I need to take pity and try to come from a
place of understanding. Sometimes it is so hard to do though… Bless them,
change me. Because that kind of talk can be as captivating to me as a bottle of
gin is to a drunk. God, keep me sane.
For those of us who have traveled the road a bit further
than those just beginning, we have had a glimpse of that glorious view. Recovery.
And there is NO going back. We can see
what life can be, if only we stick to it. The promises that are being revealed,
sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, in our lives. Don’t stop before the
miracle happens~
I look back at how far I have come, from the blubbering
mess, depressed and crying hysterically over how HUGE I felt, (which I still
can and will go back to, don’t get me wrong!) afraid of every food, crying over
dessert challenges, pinching, grimacing, loathing every aspect of my outward
being. Drinking Boost, Ensure, and Resource like they were going out of style.
1,2,3. Up to five times a day. Oh, how I despised the liquid calories running down
my throat, burning my stomach as the cement-like formula landed in my gut like
a concrete boulder. The agony. The degrading situation of having to beg someone
to let you into the bathroom and then watch them flush for you. Not being able
to have your sharps so you can shave your legs, for goodness sakes, for fear
that you will have a mental break down and harm yourself or another. Being
served your food and babysat until you’ve finished EVERY crumb, for if not, you
would be with yet still another cup of resource (AKA liquid lard). Looking
forward to coffee in the morning, even if it was just decaf. That being the
only motivation for finishing your meal 99.9% of the time. Being threatened
with a feeding tube or accused of exercising in secret because your weight is
not increasing, yet your stomach is quite visibly protruding, trying to get
used to being fed 6 times a day- knowing in 3 days even more food will be added
to your meal plan and not even comprehending how you will physically be able to
get it in and keep it down. Accomplishing that first day of a meal plan
increase, pushing through it, and lying down that night just trying to breathe
past the pain. Praying to God for the strength that tomorrow will be better, easier
somehow. Getting letters from home that make you weak at the knees and long
mournfully for normalcy. For freedom. Therapy sessions that bring up such painfully
disgusting memories that ooze with shame and regret. Delving into the past which
is, in all reality, equivalent to jumping into a pool of knives, silenced as
they pierce your heart and tear at your soul. Listening to others life stories,
feeling their self-hatred and sadness coursing through your heart. Wanting
desperately to take it away.
“God, remove this cup from me, from them.” Questioning WHY-
Why is this happening? What have I done? God save me, save us, from this Hell.
Watching people you share intimate moments with, live side
by side 24/7, struggle-cry-walk through the sea of their own shrieking demons.
Watch them leave pre-maturely due to insurance cutting them off- How unfair.
Seeing the looks of hopeless desperation across their face. Not understanding
why I am still here, why they have to leave. Feeling so undeserving. Having
your heart crushed as you see your brethren in this battle for life pack their
bags and head into the big world, into the battleground-fighting for their very
lives, like David with just a slingshot and some stones against Goliath- the
armed Juggernaut wielding a mighty
sword. Knowing all along that they can do it- seeing the strength they have but
having that same sinking feeling. Doubt. You are unequipped and ill prepared.
Pouring your heart and soul into that loved one, but having to let go and
disconnect when they fall victim again back into the captivity of Ana or Mia.
The brutal thing about recovery, about working YOUR program, is you have to be
selfish. Because at the end of the day, you can’t take anyone with you. It
comes down to you, God, and the treatment team. You begin to experience laughter,
joy again. Such foreign sensations. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry with
relief. But alas, also comes the depression, the pain, and the anger. For you cannot feel
one without knowing the other. But when
you are hit with that sudden wave of ecstasy, nothing in the world feels
better. Not that first drink, that hit, that shot, that run, that starve, or that
purge. Sheer pleasure tingles throughout your entire frame.
You will meet many brands of human on your journey. There are those people you
literally cannot stand. They make your skin crawl, their voice raising the hair
on your neck. They are entitled. Their stay is to them but a vacation, sucking
off the teat of mommy and daddy’s trust fund. Hiding food, sleeping through
groups, spreading rumors, and being genuine assholes. Ignore them. They are not
ready. They have not hit their bottom yet and that is OK. With time they will
see how much they are hurting themselves, hurting their loved ones. That they
could have a whole life ahead of them if they were to just let go, for it is
theirs for the taking. Don’t allow them to suck you into the undercurrent of
ED.
There are the ones that walk through the doors that will
trigger the shit out of you. They talk constantly about how much weight they
have lost, how sick they were, how much coke they snorted, dope they smoked,
heroine they shot whilst living in their cave of a home, glorifying a most
heinous existence. The ones that are gorgeous and thin, everything you vainly
attempted to be. Well-known and successful, they reside close to their family, returning
each night after a day in their frequently sought-after career to their beloved
dog and boyfriend, living in a gorgeous, yet tastefully decorated apartment. But
did you know? Do you remember how they got here? Oh yeah…they have an eating
disorder, an addiction. Their lives have become unmanageable. They presumably
have all those things, yet are still not satisfied. They still have that black hole
in their chest, threatening to overtake them with darkness if they do not
squelch the insatiable emptiness. They hate themselves just as much as you do.
They are suffering. Not one person is on a higher playing field than another.
We are all in pain. No one’s trauma is
worse than yours, body sicker than hers, mental capacity more compromised than
another. We all ended up in the same place, Inpatient. The highest level of
care available for one with an eating disorder. Because you were this close to
death. To compare is to despair. Focus on yourself and your recovery. Cause
once you get sucked back down into that rabbit hole, there ain’t no turnin’
back. And then there are your gumbas. Your besties. The kindred spirits you meet. Your brothers and sisters in recovery, fellow warriors against the wicked forces of ED. Prophets against the plague of Black Death. The love you have for them is immensely overwhelming. You will sob with them, laugh with them, hate their disorder and want to junk punch them in the face at times. But then you sit down, scream it out, yell, cuss, and say your peace. And move the fuck on. And you become stronger because of it. Because you have both lived in silence for too long. You would do anything for them. You pass the long hours of your day making bracelets for them, placing secret notes in their cubbies, making their bed. They fold your clothes, lend you a stamp, play with your hair, walk with you to your looming dietary appointment, distract you with game after game of contact as you pick at a hard meal, snuggle with you while watching a movie, trade clothes, do your makeup, pray in the art closet, sing Taylor Swift, serenade one another with Aladdin’s “A Whole New World,” quote Bridesmaids with incessantly, plan out your future around, both lamenting the fact that you haven’t seen a man in 3 months. You celebrate the ever- anticipated bowel movements, cheer them on as they drink their Metamucil, buy bookstore rings with (poppin’ tags at treatment! Boom!), pass notes to, vent about how much so and so is annoying the bat shit out of you, steal extra salt packets for, swiftly move your place-setting by so the techs don’t catch you, puzzles, color princess pics with, pray for during late night chat sessions, nail painting parties, crying fits and spells of hysterical belly laughter that you haven’t experienced in years. These are the moments that tie us together, the bonds that cannot be broken.
People are put into our lives that usually remind us of someone or something in our past. They give us the unique opportunity to revisit the painful memories and make peace with the situation. Some are tests from God, showing us our weaknesses, the places in our hearts we need Him to come in and weed out. Others are our angels who come into our lives and teach us our purpose. Who inspire us, who risk opening their hearts and arms to us, who stand by us and love us unconditionally. Not for what we have done or are doing now, but for who we are yet to become. They can see the potential within us, the person we are destined to morph into. And even if for only a short time they walk in our lives and we scarcely cross paths, they paint our stories with their unique experience, strength, and hope and change our destiny for the better. Forever.
