Resurrecting this blog and resurrecting myself

Over the course of this blog's lifetime I have often stated that I am resurrecting this blog, only to have that drive fizzle out within weeks, days, or even hours. But I have spent a lot of time writing this last year and I have decided that I want to share some of the emotional, mental, and physical journey I have walked or crawled or run or been dragged along or slid downhill or skipped along these past 15 months. 

For those of you who don't know, I have been battling an eating disorder for 23 years. My exercise addiction started when I was 12 and progressed through intense overexercise, restriction, purging, extreme depression and anxiety, self-harm, and years and years of hopelessness. I was stuck in the revolving door of treatment and hospitals where I would be admitted for 3-4 months and relapse the second I walked out those doors (most of the time I was still using behaviors when I was discharged). I tried just about every approach, even resorting to placing my own NG tube each night, pumping my body full of TwoCal (pretty much the densest supplement you can get) and pulling it out in the morning so I wouldn't have to walk around with a tube coming out of my nose (though there were lots of times I had an NJ tube that I couldn't take in and out). 

In the fall of 2015, as the "progress" I had made during my 12th stint in treatment quickly disintegrated, I decided I needed to do something different. For a while my medical Dr had been telling me I needed long term treatment, but I thought there was no possible way I could make that happen. My insurance wouldn't cover months and months of ridiculously expensive treatment and how could I possibly leave my husband and two children for 6, 9, or unthinkably 12 months? 

I'm going to save the details of how I got to treatment and everything that has transpired since Dec. 8, 2015 for subsequent posts, but in short, I somehow ended up at Avalon Hills in Logan, UT. I've been through some difficult times in the 35 years I've been alive, but I never knew life could be as hard as the last 15 months have been. But I have also experienced happiness that I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams.

One of the things that has saved my life while in treatment is writing. And although personal, and at times dark, I want to share some of my writing on this blog. It may not always be in chronological order and when I share some of my dark writings I'll have to add the disclaimer that I'm not in that place anymore. But I'm hoping that sharing these sometimes sacred parts of my life will help others understand what living through and recovering from an eating disorder is really like.

I know this post is already long enough, but I really want to share one of my writings today. It may not make a lot of sense because my writing is sometimes cryptic and symbolic but maybe it will give you a glimpse into my soul. Sometimes the picture perfect lives we see on social media can be exhausting and leave us feeling like we'll never be good enough so maybe my posts will help remind you that none of us live the perfection that is captured in a nanosecond photo. Plus sharing parts of our pain is what helps us really connect and form relationships that mean something.

Here's the writing I did on 5/17/16 about a moment in time I luckily captured in the picture below:

I am ashamed of how much space I take up. I am embarrassed that failure and disgust bulge from every inch of my being. I am scared that people will be so repulsed by what they see that they will turn away, creating an even greater distance than when I had up my walls. Mirrors haunt me. Pictures fracture my soul. How do I survive in this terrifying land? I am so scared. I am stuck in a maze and around every corner is a monster from my nightmares. Every turn another dead end. Will I be stuck in here forever? Is this my torturous fate? Will the constant state of panic subside as I grow accustomed to this hell or will each bend of this never-ending maze retrigger my worst fears? The walls of mirrors confirming that this nightmare is indeed reality? Sometimes I stop walking. I stop trying to escape. The pain is so suffocating that it paralyzes me. I shake uncontrollably as my body curls into fetal position. Time ceases to exist. Consciousness fades as my brain and body disconnect. I am no longer there, in my body. It scares me to not know what is real but it is also a relief to leave my world of pain behind. Maybe I should learn to exist in this world of dissociation. Maybe I can find someplace in between, where I’m halfway present, enough to function, but detached from the sights and sensations that torture me. How can I escape and stay numb? My eating disorder is tragically no longer an option. I will lose everything. 5 or 10 pounds less won’t provide the relief I want but 20, 30, 40, or all the way back to 55 will mean death. Emotional, spiritual, mental, and physical death. Starving or purging or hurting myself provides a surge of endorphins, a much needed sense of instant relief, but it is never enough. The fix is so temporary, so fleeting, and the aftermath is worse than before. It takes more and more to provide any relief and the permanent scars will never fade. So what am I left with? Maybe if I can slow down the spinning of my mind I could escape into a book? Play the piano until my fingers will no longer move? Zone out on the couch while I watch mindless drama on the TV? I dream of being able to do more meaningful things, like reaching out to someone else who’s struggling, playing with my kids and really being there, or enjoying a brisk walk as the sun peeks over the mountains. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be ok, to be there, to be free. To smile, to laugh, to play. Right now it feels like those are things I watch from a distance but could never actually enjoy myself. Simultaneously yearning for them and fearing them. I want to be happy, but I don’t know how. Putting a smile on my face feels wrong. Laughter feels threatening. Playing feels like I’m wearing shoes that are four sizes too small. But could one of the shattered fragments of my heart hold a memory? A memory of when I was a child and my life had not been tainted with pain? When happiness and just “being” were intuitive, not dreams? As I search through the shards of glass that make up my heart I find something that surprises me. It is barely visible to the eye but when I look closely it is crystal clear. It is not a memory from my childhood. I gently pick up this fragile fragment and cradle it in my hands. The edges are dark and laced with pain but there in the middle is something I did not expect. It’s me. In this body. This current, seemingly unbearable body. Just 3 or 4 weeks ago. I am lying on the cool, green grass with two of the most precious spirits in my arms. My heart is enveloped in love. We are laughing. Flying kites in the warm breeze. Playing games. Enjoying the perfect gifts I bought for them at the Book Table. Hannah glowing over the stamp set (she was so excited she couldn’t wait for paper, she just stamped all over her arms--just look at the picture :)). Johnny captivated by the mystery code book. It is a small memory--but it is real. Carefully holding the glass I sand off the dark edges so that all that is left is the light. This is the memory I will hold. I will keep it tight in my hands as I travel through this maze. Maybe later I will pick up other fragments and figure out how to shape them into a new life, but for now this is enough. I have a glimpse of light to guide me through the darkness.