When recovery gets hard.
I made the terrible mistake of reading over my post Losing My Life to Anorexia at a time when I was already feeling vulnerable. People say to me all the time - well, aren't you glad that's all over now? But as Marya Hornbacher wrote in Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia:
It's never over. Not really. Not when you stayed down there as long as I did. You never come back, not all the way. Always, there is an odd distance between you and the people you love and the people you meet, a barrier; thin as the glass of a mirror.
You never come all the way out of the mirror; you stand, for the rest of your life, with one foot in this world and one in another, where everything is upside down and backward and sad.
I still haven't learned how to live. And as I speak to you now, I watch a bumblebee dancing back and forth among the rows of purple flowers outside the window, wondering how on earth he knows where to go. Because I don't.
Wandering along the streets late at night, every night, I think and think. Where am I going, and how do I get there?
Most nights I drive, around familiar streets then further into unfamiliar ones. Hand always hovering near the horn; alert. The hum inside my mind of it's okay, it's okay, it's okay drowning out the sound of the one other car on the road - an office worker who couldn't find it in them to say no to a late night.
Where I'm going with this odd, slightly uncomfortable post, I don't know. Perhaps I just want to say recovery is hard.
But never, ever, ever give up.
And one final thought...
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