At my last appointment with my nurse practitioner, she reminisced the first time I was practically dragged into the building by my loving Auntie. Amazed by the fact that now I regularly take myself to appointments to seek refuge and comfort, which was initially totally terrorizing, she said that I have 'taken control of my life and am expanding my horizons.' I wanted to tell her that this shit is actually really really really really really really hard and I am a complete fraud. Instead, I shared a few tears with the receptionist, my doctor, and her assistant, reassuring them that my loving Auntie will continue to call them in need of therapy sessions. They were okay with that.
As their door closed behind me, I was met in the waiting room with the most gaunt woman I have ever seen. In a wheelchair, with little to no hair atop her head, the feeding tube taped to her cheek was almost bigger than the width of her frail face. I nearly collapsed in tears. Turning to the exit, I walked away. I walked away, determined that this woman represented exactly what I walked away from: death.
The reality is: old habits die hard. I made it through the refreshingly therapeutic drive across state lines and unpacked in our little abode, tucked between "Bac Street Bar" and the "SmokeBox." I am oddly comforted by the fact that I can easily cross-fade my life away if shit hits the fan.
The first few nights, old behaviors reared their ugly heads. It's interesting: amongst the unknown, my psyche turns to exactly what it knows: my eating disorder. Instead of curiosity and wonderment of a new home, a new town, (with a BEACH down the street!), I immediately 'protect' myself with my old comfort. But it's not nearly as comforting as it was before. It's not nearly as comforting because I am being demanded to remain present in my life, as it is, right now. The trick in being present, though, is that I have to think about what I want from my life. And that requires planning, thinking ahead, and then matching my actions to achieve my goals. How the hell does one do that?
Schedule. Moderation. Everything in moderation.
Even small doses of heat stroke and psychosis are okay. As long as they are in moderation.
I went to my first group therapy session in Culver City. I was met with some warm smiles from women in recovery, and some women who were wearing their struggles on their flesh- strikingly so, so sick. It was triggering. There's a knot in the pit of my stomach that tightens when I see someone with anorexia. It's only gotten tighter since treatment, because I know the misery that is living with anorexia, and the complete renovation of one's soul that it takes to recover.
The group was filled with wallows, laments, victories, and cynical thoughts. One woman was an Actress, one a College Girl, another a Producer, another a Writer, another who was a New Girl as well, and a couple who never spoke. But the fact that I am thinking the very same thoughts as these women (whom I've never met before), tells me there is something profoundly sick within society that inserts this insidious thought into women's heads: you will never be enough. I think it's a science. Ever since birth, these wild women who have a sixth sense, a keen eye for the unseen in life, the part that's not worn on someone's flesh or portrayed through their productivity or their successes or their professions, is silenced because it sees much more than others. And it is never validated. Rather, it is seen as an inconvenience. When girls are taught to "wear dresses, clean the house, put on make up, take up as little room a possible," no one says anything otherwise. Because that's the norm: sit there, be pretty, don't consume. And never, ever have an appetite. Yet, here I was. In a room full of women that had an appetite for recovery, with some part of them that was brave enough to show up on a Wednesday evening in an empty office space to acknowledge that. And that is beautiful. That is always enough.
I remembered why I am fighting so hard every day when the Producer talked about counting calories when tucking her child in at night. And when the Writer talked about how the eating disorder robbed her life from her, and has become her life because her version of 'fun' is entering a deep dark website in which she and other girls encourage and compare each other's eating disorder. It's an anorexia relay race. And it disgusts me.
I remembered why I am fighting when the College Girl talked about leaving her group of friends to go purge.
I remembered why I am fighting when I told the ladies about a list. A list of what the eating disorder robbed from me, and a list of what it gave me. It turns out, the list of what it robbed from me was pages... long enough to be a novel. And what it gave me? A couple bullet points: 1.) an easy fix for everything. 2.) an appeal to the masses.
I remembered why I am fighting when I told the Producer that I remember people for how they made me feel. For who they are, what they do with themselves, and how they live their lives. I rarely remember someone for what they looked like. And that's how I want to be remembered. For who I am - for how I make people feel.
That's when the Producer said, "My mother met a doctor who said, 'Eating disorders are like big gifts wrapped in shit. And you have to peel back layer by layer in order to get to the gift.'"
How endearing. I like it.
Finally, I remembered that I actually am in recovery when the meeting ended and we shared what we each resonated with at the end of the meeting. The New Girl said, "there's no way you're 22. You are so eloquent and you know so much. You get it."
Fake it 'til you make it, baby.
So here's to putting up my dukes and taking back my character, my autonomy, my individuality, and putting starvation in the corner with things that no longer serve me: along with my mother, my father, society at large, cult-like yoga clubs, ... the list goes on. Geez. What a life.
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