"I like the strength that I fell in my legs when I walk. When I was starving myself, I used to feel weak all of the time - as if I could be carried away by the wind."
That is a line I read in Life Without Ed (the book I referenced in my last post). It's one of the passages I've underlined because it is something I can relate to completely. Last year, before I started treatment at Mercy, there were often times I worried my legs wouldn't be able to support me much longer. I'd be out hiking in the woods, miles from my car, and feel my legs buckle threatening to give way. I'd be out for an evening walk through the Bowdoin campus and my legs would tremble with each step. That doesn't happen anymore.
Last week when talking to my therapist about the rough few days I'd had she asked how far into this book I'd gotten and what parts, if any, really spoke to me. This line was the first thing I thought of, because it's words run through my mind whenever I'm having a moment I'm tempted to give in to her (my disorder not my therapist). Thinking of them gives me a little boost of strength to say no. My therapist asked me what other positive physical differences I'd noticed since recovery, and the first thing I said was "I don't feel my heart working anymore". I started to explain what I'd meant by that, because to someone unaware that can actually seem like a bad thing, but she understood.
That power and truth behind what I'd said in that moment is something that has stuck in my head since. When it happened, when I felt my heart working, it felt like my body had shifted down a gear. It was slower, hard to move, less alive. But I could feel my heart beat faster, filling my chest with a pressure and tightness that I can only imagine is similar to what people experience during a heart attack. The first time I have a concrete memory of that happening (although I'm sure it was not the first ever) was on my birthday last year. I'd spent about 3 hours working out and eaten very little before and after. As the months went on it happened more frequently - a companion who graced me with it's company most days and for increasingly longer hours. I knew that was a sign that something was wrong, but my disorder just assured me that meant I was succeeding.
The weak legs, the overworked heart, being constantly freezing, and the bone deep exhaustion I felt more every day were the physical things that I felt because of my illness. They frightened me, but exhilarated her and only gave her more strength over my daily decisions.
Another thing she gleaned power from? My eyes. The physical proof that I saw taking place on my body. I don't know how many people knew, or at least guessed, what was going on before Mercy. I've had more than one person tell me they had no idea so for all I know it could be that no one did. I was pretty good at hiding it, at adding more and more layers of clothing to hide what lay underneath (layers were also a necessity to help me find any kind of warmth). Something I think I've mentioned before, but briefly, was the need for me to hide my arms. I never knew it was possible to become so intimately familiar with the vein patterns on your arms, or that each arm had it's own unique design. When I first noticed the change in my arms I learned that it was something I could hide by holding them at certain angles, and that holding something could help as well. By the end though, the only way to shield the truth from others was through clothes. The sight of my bare arms completely devoid of any muscle or fat was something that horrified me. But for her that was proof that I was good and she'd use the degree to which my veins would pop out as a benchmark to measure how good I'd been at not eating.
When I looked at myself in the mirror all the rib on my back stood out clearly (although not nearly definite enough for her), my tail bone was constantly bruised because there was no fat or muscle around to keep it from getting that way otherwise. My feet were nothing but a design of bones and veins - twisted warped versions of what they should have been. I've always had really thick hair, so others might not have noticed any difference, but every time I looked in the mirror I saw it hanging limp, absent of the volume it normally held without effort. Seeing clothes that used to fit (at a normal healthy weight) hanging off my body was cause for celebration, and clothes that wouldn't have fit at my normal weight that became loose only brought further joy.
Other than the improvement in my hair, we disagree on basically every change in my body since Mercy. She looks at my hips and tells me I'm fat. She sees the change in my arms and tells me I'm a failure. The fact that my feet look normal means that my eating is out of control. And clothing that is even remotely tight means that I am good for nothing and not deserving of any happiness.
Yesterday was a good day. One full mostly of joy. She was mostly pretty quiet,
especially from the afternoon onward. Today on the other hand has been a different matter
altogether. The day itself hasn't been bad. I danced around my apartment to music, got lost in a good book, laughed at the antics of Faelina, went over to a friends, and so much more. Despite all that though, she has not stopped plaguing me with awfulness and nonsense and it has been a real struggle from the moment I woke up.
When I'm having a bad day and those words from Life Without Ed surface
in my thoughts I grab onto them and use them to help me remember how
good it feels to walk without fear, to not be aware of each beat of my
heart, and to once more think of 0 degrees as not that cold. The
physical strength of my body helps me to combat the miserable feelings
she brings me other wise, and to ignore her shouts when she looks in the
mirror and doesn't like what she sees. It helps me decide to eat even when I have no desire to do so. Makes me push through the too full feeling I have to get the nourishment I need.
Another thing that gives me strength? Writing. Letting go of these dark secrets and feelings lessens the hold and sway she has over me. These posts might seem depressing and unnecessarily repetitive to some, but it doesn't feel that way to me. Each time it feels like I've shared a different darkness, a new element of sadness, and when I've turned my emotions into words and pushed the "publish" button on my blog the sense of relief I feel is indescribable. It's much like the sense of relief I might get if I did give and work out for hours or skip a meal or both. Only that relief would be temporary and leave me ultimately feeling worse, whereas the relief that comes from writing and sharing stays. It doesn't keep the bad feelings away for good, but it becomes another brick in the wall I'm building between me and her - another step in the staircase of recovery I'm slowly making my way up to. If I just remember that and refuse to give in than one day, hopefully sooner than later, that relief will come and stay - for good.
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