This past weekend, I had the opportunity of a lifetime to lose myself in the armpit of nature, located in Angeles National Forest. What a glorious armpit it was.
A nice, no-shit man named Julio took a bus of warriors seeking to find themselves in recovery on the most petrifying winding and twisting switch-backs, precariously balanced on the edge of a mountain elevated 11,000 feet above land. Needless to say, it was like a mean roller-coaster ride. But Julio was well-equipped, with 6 of these trips already under his belt, and was eager to get these over-dramatic screaming girls off his bus.
Alas, we arrived. I connected with some people I now know as my soul-sisters: a badass feminist from Wisconsin, a Jesus-loving sweetheart from Texas, and a gentle College Gal from Jersey. The first night we somehow ended up in the same bunk, drawing the difference between the vagina and the vulva on the bunk above us. What happens in the mountains stays in the mountains.
The following day, we began our workshopping. I met Lindsey Hall, a fellow blogger who dives into the nitty-gritty that is the recovery of anorexia. I remember the serene comfort I felt of someone who gets it - who knows what the struggles are in the moment-to-moment victories that don't really feel all that grand at all - and how they all amount to one, glorious, recovery.
Lindsey asked us all to write about a time when we felt the urge to turn back to our eating disorders, to set the scene, and describe what it was that made us turn to recovery instead. My moment happened just a month ago. The fact that I still struggle to cut out the eating disorder even after 8 months of residential treatment baffles me. I describe it as the beginning of truly cutting out disordered behavior from my life. It is the day I quit the addiction that was pinning me as a hamster in the viscous wheel of bulimia: running.
Here is what I wrote:
"I rolled over on my side, awakened by the glare of the sun rays. James greeted me with our usual morning kisses: one on my shoulder, one on my bum, and one on my heel.
I wanted to smile, as I felt warmth in my heart, but despair in my stomach. My body was wearing the damage I'd done the night before, and I couldn't resist the sensation of sliding backwards atop Mount Kilimanjaro. All of my work, in that moment, virtually vanished.
The shame of not feeling how I was 'supposed to,' and react with giggles, loves, and kisses, set in deep. Once again, I exited reality and entered a world of judgement, fear, shame and embarrassment. Ignoring the beauty held in the day before me, I entered tunnel-vision. I had my sights on achieving one feeling and one feeling only: emptiness.
I struggled through breakfast, knowing that my commitment to recovery required it. However, I escaped to the gym quickly, to run off what was just consumed.
After a few minutes of forcing my feet to pound the machine, I pressed stop. I was bullying myself the very same way I had for years. I was living the very same way that lead me to my death bed. I was giving in to the desire for instant gratification - with the ramifications much greater than the reward.
My character was much like the feeling I desired: empty.
So was the promise I made to myself: empty.
So was the respect I had for myself: empty.
And worst of all?
So was my strive for life: e m p t y.
And I refuse to live that way. Because when my ability to notice the sunflowers, breathe the ocean, and drink the wild air is compromised, that is not a life I want to live. I want to live a life where I am present to notice, appreciate, and love the effervescent pearl that is this world around me.
So, I pulled myself off the treadmill, out of the godforsaken gym, and made lunch. I drove myself to work and threw my heart into the kids who call me 'Miss Emmy' and 'Miss Frizzle.'
And I was nourished in a way I never knew was possible. I was full.
And guess what?
I love being full."
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