recovery has always been more like a wish in my mind. beyond all the journal bravado, the big smiles for my therapists, it was always something i never considered i would have, but rather hold for brief periods throughout my life.
i tried my best to lie to everyone, to lie to myself that i really wanted it. and some days, i did. my most passionate, lively journals and pieces on here about recovery were me attempting to hold that motivation, just for more than a few days it hours, to pin it under glass. but, it never really stuck. i've never looked at recovery as a permanent state --i've always viewed my mental health to come and go like seasons at best, but it is so much more like weather: unpredictable, but nevertheless always changing. there are some places where its mild year-round. where there isn't a constant tug-of-war between sunshine and rainstorms; i just don't know how to get there. i'm still not there.
but i'm tired of growing and shrinking like the tide: of my body growing in-out-in-out faster than i can comprehend. i'm tired of numbers, of calculations, of obsessing over my physical self. but there's also the agony of growing. of seeing someone i don't recognize in the mirror. of someone inches bigger than i know i truly am, but cannot disconnect from myself.
i gained all the weight back in just over one month, gifted by my stagnant metabolism. i couldn't stand the way he held me anymore, like i would bruise at his touch, like the welts i left on myself were his own. goodbye had become please, no more. stay here; be here when i come back for you. i couldn't take how the stomach acid tasted in my mouth; it made me feel so dirty. it burned my knuckles until i was raw inside and out. i felt like another person in the mirror, but not smaller.
i know what recovery feels like, i have glimpses, moments: it is driving, signing at the top of my lungs and for the first time in months, feeling unafraid; it is looking myself in the mirror, face slick with vomit, and saying: this is the only ugly piece of you, and you chose to let it out again. lock her up; it is packing a late picnic lunch and sitting on the promenade with him and in a moment of passion, kissing him so hard everyone stares and grinning: fuck it, lets get ice cream.
and i'm not there, now. i'm battling with this body, still. with grief so heavy i think it adds on all the pounds i see. but i'm making right choices. good choices. i'm undergoing medical monitoring through a pcp i trust and likely having an endoscopy to find out why food makes me so ill, anymore. i decided rather than to lose another friend, to listen --i went to see a counselor at my university for weekly sessions and am being weighed at the health center by a nurse that calls me nothing other than brave.
i am still trying to lose weight, i won't deny that. i've regressed again; dinner is my only meal, but i eat it right. i keep it down, even though my body seems intent on rejecting it. i'm not purging anymore, my body brings up enough food on its own. if it stopped hurting so much, it would be easier. i just hope this has a name, a cure, a diagnosis other than age-old angst.
i don't know that i'm going to ever really recover: this is my albatross, and i think like the scars on my arm, regardless of how much time passes, i will always carry it. but i need to start making more good choices, to be a better, more responsible person. i'm not leaving this earth with nothing but pages of sad words and a vomit stain, and that's all i am right now. i might not recover, but i can be better. i can do better. i want to be better, sometimes.