I knew that I would have to face lots of things when I decided to try this recovery thing. I knew it would be one of the hardest things I might have to ever face.
I knew it would take strength and time. Willingness and passion.
It’s funny to look back now, and see all of the hurdles I had to jump over to follow finally end up here.
Here in my imperfection. In my anxiety and shame. The blush is rising in my cheeks as I write this. Because there’s still shame.
I want people to know. Know that there are reasons behind my motions. And I remember how anyone I know can read my thoughts on here. My heart goes crazy thinking of all of my stories and fears being out there for anyone to read.
And yet I continue.
But my point isn’t that I am brave or righteous. I just want people to know there’s hope. And on the days when they feel like tomorrow may never come, I want to show them surviving the night is possible.
I can remember sitting in my doctors office making promises that I didn’t know if I could keep. And now I’m here and the only person to make promises to is myself.
I still have my safety net of professionals and family members who are looking out for me, but at the end of the day it’s me who is keeping tabs on why or why not I’m eating.
I’ve heard it’s smart to get rid of your old clothes when you enter recovery. I did go through and donate a lot, but my dresser drawers still held at least fifteen pairs of jeans that still fit.
What? They really did, I swear.
I started this thing in September 2015. In a few months I will be returning to September, a year later.
I keep thinking I’m done, I have nowhere else to go.
But I do. I have wounds to heal.
And fears to face.
I finally decided to tackle my drawers full of jeans. I don’t need all of them anyway and I knew most of them didn’t fit now.
No offense, but I felt a little bit like a woman who had just reached a milestone, maybe like a woman who has always wanted to lose those despised last ten pounds…except I didn’t feel accomplished, really.
I didn’t feel joy at stuffing those blue jeans into a box for someone else, smaller than I, to wear.
It hurt to try to wriggle those waistbands up my hips and have them stick.
I’m not going to proudly go shopping, and announce to my friends that I can finally wear size “xx”.
I feel torn. There are moments when I really think about how I feel, and what I’ve been putting this work in for.
And the answer, after “mom, dad, siblings, husband, girls everywhere” is me.
Me. Yep, that’s right. And it sucks because I know I should feel good, and most of the time I do.
But there are days when I know I’m not doing 100% and there are times when my history taunts me.
Ed, the Ed that has been with me for far longer than I care to think about; tells me I’m in control. And that maybe in August of last year I wasn’t so unhappy.
Ed wants me to be able to put on those jeans and button them up, and still have to reach for my belt, the belt I haven’t used in ages now.
I look in the mirror and ponder whether I am recognizable anymore.
I’m often uncomfortable.
I take up more space.
I had to return a romper at a store, because I chose size small, and no matter how I pulled and wished and bargained with the universe, the seams wouldn’t give.
Of course there was no size medium.
Letting go is never easy, I suppose.
Especially when it comes to blue jeans.