Sometimes I sit. I sit in half-lotus, or collapse, whatever best befits my level of exhaustion (there’s no in between, it’s go hard or go home for me when it comes to black and white thoughts), and I think. I probably dissociate a fair bit, but mostly I think. I think about how things are getting bad again, how I didn’t eat all day, how I’m finally hungry again, and how proud I am of that. [I don’t feel proud.] I think a little about the sharp objects I have left, because I had to get rid of most of them as a treatment requirement, and I think about the easiest one to find, and use. The one requiring the least effort. I let emotions and urges wash over me, wave upon wave of sadness, of hopelessness, of despair. They linger in every corner of my being, even when I smile, even when I giggle, even when I seem “well” or “fine” or “better”, at least from the outside.
And as they linger, they whisper to me that things will never be different. This sadness will always consume me, the temptation to hurt myself will always be there – whether noticeably, with a nice, sharp object, or more subtly, with the lies. I lied when I said I ate today. I lied when I said I have a better relationship with exercise now. I lied about hurting myself – I still do it. These are fresh scars. So yes, I am a liar. I’m working on that. But, as these things washed over me today, a new development occurred. My fragile head-space was disrupted by a fragment of something a little different, a little strange.
Instead of resigning myself to mental illness, to depression, to BPD, to bulimia, and to becoming anorexic again, I resigned myself to recovery. It was a simple act, but an act nonetheless.
I don’t always want to get better. I definitely struggle to let things go. (Anorexia, I’m looking at you.) Recovery isn’t easy, and maybe it won’t ever be. But I will get better, in tiny increments, in small steps, and minor wins.
I’m supposed to enjoy “fun foods” every day as part of my meal plan. Chocolate is my prescribed medicine – I’m serious about this. To me, fun foods still have connotations of bad foods / binge foods, and maybe they always will. Normally I avoid having this component of my meal plan, and replace it with a safe snack instead. But today, today, I ate a muffin. Because I wanted to. A chocolate muffin. Every inch of my being was screaming at me to have a single bite, and then throw it away. But I ate mechanically, I ate it all. I didn’t lose control. I wasn’t in a binge mindset. But I told Ana to fuck off. With a fucking chocolate muffin.
I feel guilty. Ana encourages the guilt with every ounce of her being, because thin people don’t eat muffins, thin people don’t eat anything. Thin people are perfect people, and I want to be perfect, right?
Maybe. Yes. Who am I kidding? I’ve never weighed this much before, and I would do anything to be thin again, even if it means returning to the hell of anorexia, in fact, especially if it means that, because it’s a slow suicide, and I still think about how I threw away that opportunity.
Not in this moment. In this moment, I am resigning myself to recovery. Ana tells me I want to be thin again, but I don’t want to be sick again.
So yes, I ate a muffin.