How to Ground Your Self-Worth Amid Heartbreak and Healing
For me, dating has been treading in an infinity pool — or rather, an infinity sewer, bouncing from one lily pad — one cavalier boy to the next, yearning to navigate to my soulmate. I started dating right before I turned 20, and I wildly accelerated speed to make up for years of getting no romantic attention. My hastiness consisted of latching onto the lifeboats of boys who only wanted my rims and my lips — boys who employed me as a toy to gel their arrogance and pompous personality. And I gave into their schemes. I fed into the nectars of each of their hyperboles and embellishments. I placed them on a pedestal (so high, they snobbishly sauntered among the clouds). I worshiped them. I was clay in their hands — theirs to mold. I built my entire universe around them. I gifted them all my “firsts.” I landed “first place” in foolishness and delusion, permanently sporting obscuring rose-colored goggles. I let them define my self-worth. I let them hinder my valiant ventures and strides in eating disorder recovery.
Often my relationship with food and dalliances of romance are entangled — once I pursue rendezvouses with my latest manic fixation, I neglect my mind and body’s dire needs. Because I couldn’t control how he felt about me, I started to regulate my food intake. And suddenly, all the progress I’d fought for over the past three years disintegrated at the mention — even at the possibility — of a date. The intermingling of giddiness and anxiety bloated my stomach, utterly spoiling my appetite. And I was left hiding under my bed sheets in shame teetering between the complex world of healing and self-love, while proactively seeking my soul’s match.
Just recently, I’ve unearthed similarities between shedding anorexia’s leash around me and coping with heartbreak. I’ve stumbled upon three stages within my transition from ailing to ascending — plummeting, practicing, and prospering.
Plummeting
The groggy morning after a breakup. The exhausted eyes — tired from sobbing my brains out. The panging feeling of rejection and sorrow. The urgency to conjure a plan to “fix” an unfixable situation by begging for his belittling to toxify my life (once again). The aforementioned luggage of emotions has been one of the hardest feelings I’ve had to endure. Similarly, in the depths of my eating disorder I’ve combatted a grief so strong, it seethed beneath the surface: the feeling of aching for complacency and submission. Within my wicked ties to anorexia, I’ve experienced denial of my sickness, an unfathomable sadness, and a deep-rooted regret — swimming in the “what ifs” and “maybes,” aching for temporary relief. Wanting him back and yearning for the warped comfort of my disorder are parallelly linked. But where I truly found my strength was in granting my body permission to wallow, wilt, and crumble, ultimately garnering the desire to rebuild and establish a sturdier foundation. Plunging into pockets of darkness has enabled my resilient self to expose the light that has been within my caverns all along.
Practicing
Now that I’ve been graced with the yearning to heal, it’s time to overcome my misery through expressions of self-love and self-worship. I had previously deemed this stage as a race with a finish line — the mindless act of moving on from him, filling the vacancy with someone else, or the trek of recovering from my eating disorder through another maladaptive coping mechanism. However, I’ve uncovered that healing is akin to fostering a garden of magnificence; it needs tending, love, and compassion. The main component of this stage is reigniting your sense of self by befriending your mind and body. Stop waging war on yourself. Claim back your power. Awe at your amphitheater of majesty. Run through the sprinklers of your playground. Spiritually reclaim the sacredness of your home. Admire your body wholly — an audience of atoms with stretch marks like lightning bolts. Realize that all you are is all you’ll ever need.
Prospering
And finally, bask in your freedom. Revel in your triumphs. I like to think of this stage as a grand gala. Make the rounds — greet each entity of yourself. Lace tenderness across the chandeliers. Enjoy all the wonderful delicacies the festival has to offer. Indulge in your own happiness and genuine identity. Marvel among your garlands of glory. Make a speech to relish in your triumphs; here’s mine —
A Homage to My Past
Deprivation became the game,
The dagger of my demise
Wielded inside,
I won — losing myself
In the process
But now,
I boast my bloom for life
The ghost lodged in complacency
Exudes lightness
The verities of my recovery
Gleam brilliantly,
My mind has restored my body’s truancies
My plate is no longer empty
And my soul and heart are full
You need to eat
Became a pledge
Rather than a question
Overall, recovery from heartbreak and anorexia have stimulated fervent pieces of myself — facets among my expressive chambers that I hadn’t known existed. I no longer label my obstacles as onuses of my independence, but instead, as devices fettering my being to self-reflection and a clarifying sense of growth. Healing has granted leeway for autonomy and the opportunity for empowerment. Despite the suffering I’ve stomached, I am worthy of a life beyond my paralyzing sadness. I am indeed deserving of a life beyond my eating disorder — beyond my anxieties, doubts, and heartaches. Going forth, I hope to continue choosing to embrace my genuine zest and desire to delight in the irrefutable grandeur of my mind and body.
