I’m done. I’m done hating myself. I’m done being uncomfortable, angry, sad, self-conscious; really just insert any negative word into this sentence, and I’m so over it. I’m done thinking that other’s opinions of the way I look are what make me beautiful. I’m done craving to see the number on the scale, only to get utterly pissed because it’s not small enough. I’m done spending my days binging and purging and then being pissed when my runs suck or I can’t keep up.
The Eating disorder took so much away from my life, but we talk a lot about what it took away from the relationships with others in my life (or maybe that’s just me coming off of a family therapy binge- pun intended), but what’s kept behind closed doors is what it takes away from the relationship with myself. I have never really gotten to know who I am as a person. My worth was always wrapped up in the size of my clothes and the way they fit, or if I was satisfied by how small my stomach looked every time I’d pull up my shirt to look at it in the mirror. I literally remember crying and kicking the scale one day because I had gained a few pounds, not realizing that I’m woman and we can retain water at certain times of the month, or maybe I just needed to take a shit!
I’m under no illusions that just because I say I’m over these negative emotions it will happen. Just because I want to be un-crazy doesn’t mean I am, but I can keep telling myself that I am over it, and maybe one day it’ll stick. My main worry when I came home from treatment was that since I went away for a few months, other people would think I’d be cured. It’d be great if it worked that way. Shit, it’d be really fucking great if, when I was in the hospital, the idiot quack doctor who told me that if I started a regiment of 10mg of Prozac, my eating disorder would be gone in a matter of months was right. Hey asshole, I have some books for you to read.
I still hate the way my clothes feel on me because I have gained weight. I still hate that I’m no longer in a size 0. I still pull my shirt up and look at my stomach in the mirror multiple times a day; however, I don’t weigh myself anymore because my husband hid the scale from me when I came home from treatment. (He’s a sneaky little bastard. He’s also very smart.) The difference between now and then is that I no longer let the emotions ruin my day. Yes, they still ruin portions of my day, but I am able to realize that that’s silly.
This weekend, I attended a pool party. I was quite nervous. I haven’t been in a swim suite since well before treatment. I even went to a spa weekend with my mom and sister and wouldn’t take my cover-up off. But a few days before going to said party, I had a friend tell me she doesn’t do swimsuits because she’s too self-conscious. I thought in that moment, “I am done letting my crazy shit affect my ability to have a good time.” I proceeded by taking my mother-fucking cover-up off (with the positive vibes of a good friend; you know who you are:) and sitting my ass on the edge of the pool while… get this, eating a slice of pizza. #recoveryworrier. The negativity can stay at a minimum, it’s time for good vibes.