Difficult Recovery Days

I feel diseased.

I'm sitting at the bottom of a well where the only echoes I hear scream “not good enough” and “not worth it.” But I know I'm worthy of recovery. I place my hands over my ears. I still hear the voices. Gosh, they're so loud. When will they stop? When? I'm tired, please.

Please.

Some days are so, so hard. Anxiety builds up in my chest until I can barely breathe. I feel shaky; I long to go to bed. Worries rush through my mind like rapids: you have no money; you didn't gain any skills in college; look at all these jobs you are unqualified for!

You're too weak for life.

My weight went down this week. I believe this is because I've been more active; my eating hasn't really changed. I saw my weight and my first thought was Oh, I need to get that up a bit. I was proud of myself for not delighting in the fact that I lost weight. I don't need to lose weight.

Let me repeat that: I do not need to lose weight. I. DO. NOT. NEED. TO. LOSE. WEIGHT.

Whittling away to nothing will not solve my problems. For some reason, I have been afflicted with a disorder that makes me believe that if I just lose weight, I will be happy. If I just don't eat, that is success. If my body is perfect, then I am perfect.

I spent a lot of time today putting myself down. Hating myself. And it's only 1pm. I'm not going to give in to this. I am going to get up and move forward. It's Friday. I am going to use this weekend to relax. To forgive myself. Everyone else has, so why can't I extend some grace towards myself?

Some people around me seem to think that recovery is a matter of weight. I can be at the healthiest weight ever, but that does not mean I am recovered. The solution is not for me to eat more or to gain weight. There are so many roots to this problem that are fixed deep into the ground. I'm still digging into the soil and trying to get to these roots. It's not easy, but this is the way to recovery. Maybe before I rise up, I need to go down; down into the depths of myself.

In the past, I may have thought that making my outward appearance “perfect” was going to make my life wonderful. I know realize that the person I am does not depend on my looks, my body, my weight.

I feel diseased.

I'm sitting at the bottom of a well where the only echoes I hear scream “not good enough” and “not worth it.” But I know I'm worthy of recovery. I place my hands over my ears. I still hear the voices. Gosh, they're so loud. When will they stop?

Maybe they never will stop entirely, but I am not just going to sit here and let them wash over me. Today was a hard day in recovery, but I'm alive. I'm here. I'm going to keep going.