This week I came closer to skipping a meal than I ever have since Mercy. I'd had a day where my mind had quite literally become hell on earth. I was tired, and so worn out that it physically hurt to walk, to speak, even to think. Nothing in that day seemed to be going right and then something else happened, completely unrelated to food or exercise, and I was just done.
To be honest, life the last two weeks have been the tough, the hardest since I first started training for my new job an almost tripped into relapse because of the whole sitting issue. Like then, this most recent struggle is (likely) due to the fact that I've started down a different trail on my recovery journey - exercise. I've written before that exercise had a top spot among my disorder behaviors. If night came and I hadn't gotten in at least a couple good workouts and a walk or two the day was considered a failure. I considered myself a failure. Of course, even if I had done those things - or more - there was always her voice in the back of my mind taunting me, telling me that I could have done more. When I first started at Mercy, physical activity of any kind was not allowed. I wasn't allowed to even walk up the street, and stairs were definitely out (you should have seen the Dr's face when she found out I lived on the 3rd floor of a building with no elevator). It was a major shock to my mind to have to sit all day, but my body embraced it with relief, and I know without doubt that it was exactly what I needed.
Since discharging from Mercy, I've been good about keeping those Jillian Michael's dvds out of site and my workout clothes hidden in my closet, but a few sessions ago I talked to my therapist about moving from walks and light yoga to something more serious. I had my reasons for why I thought now was the time, which she agreed with, and together we came up with a plan. No more than 3 times a week although walking every day was still allowed, for now nothing on weekends (since those had been my worst behavior days), I have to eat something to make up for it - no exceptions, and most important ONLY IF I WANT TO.
I was cautiously excited that first morning I woke up and let my body move in ways it hadn't been pushed in months. I was surprised by just how hard it was to eat something extra, but I did. When I woke up the next morning and felt my legs screaming in protest of the soreness in their muscles I smiled, because I had (crazy as it sounds) missed that feeling. I wish it was as easy as that, but eating disorders never allow for simplicity. Since that first day she has tried to get me to break my rules. She wants more daily workouts, she wants my walks to become runs, she wants me to eat less - a lot less, and she wants pleasantly sore muscles to transform into painful injuries and death like exhaustion as proof that I've overdone it.
I lost weight that first week (only a little) and she practically glittered with glee. I on the other hand spent much of last weekend confused, miserable and mentally exhausted. In an attempt to ground myself and build my strength, I reached out to a friend from Mercy, called my best friend for a long talk, made a trip to the library, and started reading Neil Gaiman's newest book (which is amazing!). Each of those things helped, but not enough and opening my eyes Monday morning felt like waking on the eve of a battle.
I did the absolute best that I could. I added even more food into my day on the days I exercised. I tried so hard to let myself sit when I was tired (this continues to be a daily struggle that I usually lose). I wrote, I read, I breathed deep, I hoped for peace. It wasn't enough though, and as the hours wore on the wall I've built up between my thoughts and hers went from thick wood, to thin plaster, to a sheer curtain threatening harm. She was gaining ground, and I was just so tired, and then Wednesday morning that wispy curtain blew in the wind and then vanished. Suddenly I'd gone back in time to walk in the world where she ruled my life and I merely existed. She was done with bargaining, finished with suggesting that I move a little more or chose a lighter meal. She'd had enough of her desires being put on the backburner to mine. She took control and demanded that I do exactly what she said, or else.
I spent Wednesday evening hating myself. I fell asleep knowing I was a pathetic failure. My thoughts were filled with tears of pain. Those feelings ran wild because, as I've said, I'd lost the boundary between us and her feelings were my own. I felt that way, because she lost and she hated me for it. I ate, I didn't exercise more, I chose to not disappoint the people who love me. I knew that as awful as it was to live through that night, if I gave in to her I'd wake up feeling worse the next day. I knew also, that skipping a meal would be a huge setback and a definite sign that I wasn't ready for exercise. My therapist often says to me that as awful as I might feel to give in now would make everything I've put myself through up to this point a total waste. So I fought with misery and her echoing words as my allies.
I woke up Thursday morning with more faith in myself and my desire to truly recover. I still have miles upon miles to go, a trek that makes the Iditarod look a cakewalk in comparison, but I shot down an enormous obstacle this week. When I stepped on the scale this Friday, I got a smiling thumbs up and a big hug of encouragement from the nurse. Of course that comes with mixed emotions, and part of me felt dejected and upset, but I dealt with that. I am proud of myself for getting through this week, and even more hopeful that one day she will no longer haunt my thoughts, and I will be able to live this beautiful life I've been given in freedom.
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