I Didn’t Think Recovery Was For Me

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By: Anonymous

I never thought I would recover. I wasn’t sure if recovery from an eating disorder was even a real thing. Let alone possible for me. I never thought I would want to recover even if it were a possibility. I remember leaving a clinic that I didn’t want to go to in the first place; I was supposed to go get my things and come back in the morning to start inpatient therapy. I wasn’t ready. Are we ever really ready? I guess that the answer must be yes, or at least that we must kind of want to try, anyway. But not yet. I had to get worse before I got “ready.” Because eventually, I had to decide — did I want to die or not? I wasn’t really sure if I cared anymore. That’s the decision that it ultimately comes down to if you let it. Or it did in my case anyway. I’ve never felt more alone or more ashamed. And I’ve never liked myself less. And my family was worried about me, and I hated myself for making them worry.

Eventually, I started to worry about me too. “Do I have electrolyte imbalance(s)? Am I going to lose consciousness and wake up in a hospital? Do I have osteoporosis? Am I infertile? Does it even matter? I can’t even take care of myself; how could I ever even think about taking care of a child?” I didn’t know what to do. But it seemed I had learned exactly what not to do. For a while, I actually I thought I was in control. I thought had such great willpower. And I guess it did start out that way. If you can deny yourself a basic human need, what can you not do?

But somewhere along the way, I lost that control. I remember seeing a photo of a note on the inside of a toilet lid that said “who’s in control now?” It really stuck with me. Looking back now, I feel confident I will never go back because I see now that there is no winning. No end goal. No staying in control. No being perfect. I would never be “good enough.” I remember setting and reaching weight goals, and I never felt even a little better. Not once.

I never thought I’d be here today. Here, drinking coffee that’s not black, studying so that I can try to figure out how to help others like me (or unlike me). I never would have considered that my thoughts or my story may be worth sharing. I never thought I’d talk or write about this. But what have I got to lose? If it helps anyone, it was worth it. And I like to think it couldn’t have all been just for me. Now I even have a recovery tattoo, for myself, and for anyone else who may need it. To remind myself how far I’ve come. And that there is hope. And to know that I am not alone. None of us are alone. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness; it is a sign of strength. Recovery is possible. You are more than enough.

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