I wake up, roll over in my discombobulated (wonder how the heck I sleep) bed ;and wonder what time it is.
Hoping for it to be at least 8am so I can get my friggin’ breakfast out of the way (because that’s how I feel about food these days), to my dismay it’s 7am.
I sigh, and get angry at myself. Screaming at myself, (thank God I live alone in an apartment) I’m frustrated because I’ve spent the entire night tossing and turning, not getting a ‘wink’ of sleep thinking about my body. Thinking about how big it’s gotten, how much weight it will have gained overnight. Now I know this all sounds irrational, and I often tell myself, “Wangui, stop being so friggin’ ridiculous!”
But I can’t help it. Every morning and before I go to bed, my brain is overtaken with fear, anxiety, dread, and panic. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I think, with a sinking feeling is “Is today going to be the day that I’m just that closer to being my previous weight? Is today the day I’m fat?”Every moment of day, whether I’m on the bus, having a conversation with someone, eating my meals, worshiping, reading etc etc, I’m just thinking of more dreaded weight gain. And to my horror, the days end and I lie in bed thinking about how much bigger I will be the next day. I think I’m in a way trying to brace myself for the ‘worst’, which I remember quite well.
So that’s why waiting for breakfast to come, has not become exciting because I’m scared. Scared to eat. But I have to. It’s crazy if you think about it. Being afraid of the ‘thing’ that keeps you ALIVE.
Eating for me, at this point has become a chore-a wanting to get things done off my checklist. And so as I get ready for the day, make my breakfast, I’m quietly whispering to “God, I just can’t do today. I’m so tired God. I’m so tired of being afraid of food. I’m so tired of mistrusting my body, it mistrusting me, and all in all tired of not trusting you with my body. God I just want peace. I want freedom to be normal!”
And of course I know He’s listening so I go on, out loud, unfiltered, unashamed, in my solitary apartment,
“God I’m afraid, and terrified because my body is still gaining weight. And it’s gaining. God I know what happened last time. You know. God it didn’t stop gaining. It became an unhealthy weight, and as much as I pleaded and prayed with you, nothing happened. I got the worst medical recommendation ever, and I relapsed, and I’m back here trying to climb this mountain of recovery. God I want to learn to love my body. Both physically and internally. I want to believe that I can stare at myself in the mirror and not cringe–not want to cut off every piece of flesh I see. God I just want freedom, restoration, and happiness and joy for once”
And of course I don’t get an immediate answer. But just saying it out loud, makes me feel a tiny bit better. It makes eating breakfast a little easier. But if I’m being honest, recovery at this time is HELL-A hard. I get these dark thoughts, really dark, thoughts that I know are not from God. Thoughts of self-harm, thoughts of “Wangui know one would notice if you left this city, or if you disappeared” They go on and on. And sometimes I’m able to rebuke them, to shut them up using scripture etc, but other times they are so deafening. So recovery is hard as hell right now. I’m still eating “normally” by the GRACE of GOD (for real) and haven’t engaged in any ED behaviours; but I’ve pinpointed some warning signs. Those such a) being afraid to eat certain foods within the same week or day b) going to social events with food c)going to events with semi-formal wear needed because I’m afraid to try on a lot of my clothes d) being hesitant to drink milk e) high urges to exercise f) wanting to purchase a scale
It’s crazy if you think about it. Being afraid of the ‘thing’ that keeps you ALIVE.
For the most part I try and resist them at best, but I find myself praying for God to give me strength. Because along with those warning signs, I’ve been experiencing depressive episodes, of skipping class and sleeping all day. Just a really mood and wanting to escape through not being there. I tell God, this is NOT the way He made me to live. I tell Him, why are we going through the same recovery road of 2015 where I ended up hospitalized again for the millionth time?
!!Recovery is tough!!
Sometimes, when I go out and venture out into the world to socialize, I make sure to put on my mask. I wash my face, swipe foundation evenly over it, add some blush, use some jet-black lengthening and defining ( I don’t know if they really do what they ‘claim’ to do.. mascara and eye liner, and slip on some colourful attire, with accent ginormous earrings or, some BOMB necklace. And I look nice, or at least think I do. I smile at myself, as I think “No one is ever going to guess, or know at your inner turmoil–no one”. And so I walk out my door and put on the best damned show possible. Being loud, friendly, outgoing, funny, because not really because I want to or like to (which I really do because that’s my personality); but because I don’t want them to see.
To see how fake it all is. It was easier for people to know how I was on the inside when I was literally a walking skeleton thin, looking sickly and half dead young woman. But now, as at whatever weight I am (I don’t know, cuz I busted that scale), I just look like everyone else. But I feel like I’m an impostor, a fake. And so I hold onto my mask harder, tighter, and put on a better show. I never let people ask me deep questions about my self–because well–well it’s a Pandora’s box.
Recovery is hard.
Pushing. Crying. Falling. Faking. Standing. Smiling. Fighting.
Recovery is hard.
I’ll say it again,
Recovery is DAMN hard.
And God, because I know you’re watching me writing this, this better be worth it. Because on days like today. I feel like it’s become a disappointment.
Recovery is hard.
March 21, 2017