Crossing the Line

Well. I’ve made it an entire month writing about something that I’ve been keeping a secret for years. After the first few entries this month, I really wanted to quit. I mean like I had a silent meltdown about it. Owning my shit and writing about my shit are two different struggles. When this month began, I thought there was no way I would be able to do both.

And look what happened …

I fucking did it.

I feel like I did when I crossed the finish line of my first half marathon. Elated. Proud. And very stunned. Just like training for a long race, in so many ways, I’ve been training myself to write about this … by being open with people about my struggle, by being aware of triggers, and by being honest with myself. Speaking of being honest.

During residency, I tried to make sure that every post I sent off to the interwebs was one that was bright. I needed them to be bright so that I could remain focused. Now, back in the safety of my lab (and almost all the way unpacked) I know I have to own up to something.

I had one really fucking hard day at res. I lost my water bottle, got in trouble in Workshop, one of my heroines yelled at me in front of a group of my peers, and I was feeling like shit. My calories were right on the money, cool, fine, whatever. But I felt like shit, and a learned behavior for me is that when I feel like shit mentally, I should feel the same physically.

Over the course of my struggles with anorexia, I have often reverted to abusing laxatives. Not that I needed to expel anything that was going into my body  … but that’s a realization that’s only come now. Anyway, I brought the last box of this giant stash of those little chocolate flavored squares with me to res. Why? Who fucking knows. No, scratch that. I know why. I brought them as a safety measure, just like I carry a knife and I sleep with a handgun near. Packing the box in my suitcase reassured me that if shit really hit the fan, I always had the bars with me.

So back to this crap-tastic day. It was terrible, and I spent a significant amount of time engaging in self-hate talk, working myself into a tizzy. It was late; the gym was closed, so there was no constructive outlet for me, and my brain was fried so writing was out. I went to my suitcase. Pulled out the box and shoved six of the pieces in my mouth. Started to chew. Stared at the box, the raised word, “Relief” staring back at me. Kept chewing. And then ran to the bathroom and spit them out. Said out loud, “Nope. I’m not starting that shit again.” Flushed the rest of the box. Brushed my teeth and decided to stop being a little bitch about things. So it was a bad day. Big deal. They happen to everyone. One bad day should not and cannot mean failing at this recovery.

The next day, I took some time in the morning to sit and think about what I’d (almost) done. I’m ashamed that I started to eat the laxatives. But know what’s better? Being proud as fuck that I stopped and spit them out.

This has been an epic month. Whew! I’m looking forward to switching the theme for June. What will it be? Check back tomorrow to find out.