So this blog is for people in recovery, right? Well, I am in recovery. It feels weird writing these words black on white, because to be in recovery means accepting the fact that I am ill. Three letters that scare the shit out of me: i-l-l. Well, I am, and have been for such a long time that it started to feel normal. Alternating days of eating like a baby bird to days where I ingest anything and everything has become my life. Going out to dinner has become a nightmare and owning the same outfit in every size between an 8 and a 16 a sad reality.
They say it’s not about food, and they’re right. Something is missing, something that I can’t even name. There’s a void, an emptiness. When people are satisfied, they say they’re fulfilled. Well, that’s probably what caused the confusion: in an attempt to find fulfilment I have made myself “full-filled”; in other words “full-filled” myself with food. Except it didn’t work. “Full-filled” does not amount to fulfilled. Fulfilment is about freedom, about love, about passion, laughter, friendship, courage, strength and none of these things can be found in a cake (or five) or in an app that counts your calories for you.
So I embarked on this journey towards fulfilment, towards unconditional love and away from the scales. I’m going to hand them in, the scales. Do I want to? Fuck, no, I don’t, but I will. It’s funny how we get attached to what’s holding us captive. Stockholm syndrome, they call it. Well, sometimes that’s what it feels like, this inability to let go of my eating disorder. Who will I be without it? It’s my chain and my Linus blanket all in one, and kicking its ass is going to hurt. But then I see a woman eating an ice-cream with her five-year old. I want to do that some day, and the “bitch” is not going to let me if I don’t beat her now. Who will I be without my scales, without my twisted way of coping with the hand I’ve been dealt? I don’t know, and it’s scary, but I have a feeling it’s worth the fight; it’s worth digging my heels in and finding out.