Job 2½ - Recovery - Part One

Recovering from an eating disorder is probably the hardest thing I will ever do. Actively going outside my comfort zone, feeling uncomfortable all the time, is horrendous, to put it lightly. Living with an eating disorder is easy in comparison; as much as I hate to say it, feeling small - conditioning myself to live with certain rules and restrictions that protect me from feeling like I am not good enough for outside approval - makes me feel good. That is what I tell myself at least.

Recovery is what I imagine it is like to be a baby. Carefully introducing new foods to my diet to figure out if I like the texture and taste, and how it makes me feel, and can I handle a second serving? Except rather than doing it out of nurture and necessity - I am far less advanced (the ballsiness!) - for me it is about learning how to eat intuitively. Going back to basics when nothing was off-limits, taking one step forward and facing the consequences when I get there. Like buying a bag of Revels - that is step one. I might throw it away, but I got it in the house. Step two is opening the packet; if I make it to step three… crunch time. I may only nibble the chocolate (orange, of course), not the whole thing - that is ambitious - an action small enough to make me feel safe (phew, and breathe) - but better than nothing (look at you go!). To be honest, buying food with intention, only the intention, sometimes is enough. Before I would never have made it this far. It might end with me overthinking the one mouthful that failed to be perfect (and I will find it); riddled with guilt and regret, I feel sick. How could I let myself ruin this one treat allowance on something so mediocre - what a waste! However unconvinced I am at the time - this, apparently, is progress. Better than denying the thought and not buying, touching, tasting, (smelling, even), the Revel (yes, singular) in the first place.

As with any fixed routine, ‘normal’ behaviour is hard to break - if mine can be classified as that. Untangling the mess I created requires a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, stumbling upon unfamiliar territory, assessing trial and error scenarios (and I would not put a SWOT analysis past me). When I find myself in a fight or flight situation, on the verge of self-sabotage, retreat is survival. My comfort zone is my prime orbit, knowing I can revert back to it at any moment reassures me. Buying carrot cake alongside my coffee, for example, I may have walked to King’s Cross and back to compensate - and spent more time thinking about buying it than actually eating it - but I did it. Some days, rather embarrassingly, I bought two (ok, four) coffees because the first one(s) I found uninspiring - ie. they did not meet my standards of good enough - and I wanted to enjoy my daily ration, not dissect it later on. For one particular craving, I took myself on a tour of various cafés to find the best-looking blueberry muffin; I brought it home, stared at it sitting on my kitchen table like a new ornament or piece of art, teasing and tempting me - and look at my crumbly oat topping - and then I threw it away. The deliberation of whether or not I could have a mouthful - but can I, really, my legs are expanding at the thought - scarcely works in my favour. The potential gain in recovery versus the potential gain in weight; the verdict is no surprise; once again the eating disorder wins (and sometimes I am secretly glad).

Besides admitting to how much brain space food takes up, I am not sure which is worse: my disappointment come sadness for not having the mental strength to consume something I really want, or the pride I feel for mustering up the courage to take the risk and see it through - only to beat myself up in the aftermath. If I feel like I am going too far, if I take one chip too many and panic - abort! Quick, put it down! In the heat of these moments, I am frustrated, I want to shake myself. I want to eat a slice of cake or piece of toast with Nutella without worrying about how it will make my body look, or how insecure it will make me feel. I want to stop calculating when I will have my chocolate ration - elevenses mocha or after dinner (both is never an option)? To date I am tempted to break the cycle, still, heart-pounding at the thought… No, fear gets the better of me; I can’t do it, and I feel disheartened by my own defeat. All the ambition, not enough execution - I thought I was better than that. On reflection, I get it. Diet culture is so convincing. I appreciate I crossed the line, it made me think it had my best interest and longevity at heart (and yet is it any wonder eating disorders have the highest mortality rate?). I fell for it wholeheartedly; promoted under the guise of health and wellness - a cult of higher purpose, belong in it, or don’t. Harder still to resist because the day to day exposure denies me closure, there is no shelter and it threatens my recovery. Not always I can cancel out the noise because to an extent I still believe in it. Like when I compliment someone’s Sweaty Betty gym shorts (for the colour and pattern, to clarify), and they tell me they are great for hiding cellulite. Or I admire my friend’s jeans and they respond, "they're an old pair that fit me before I gained a bunch of weight. I'm getting there though." The compliment was the grey jeans and yet somehow I complimented their weight loss goals. (Naturally, I thought their legs did look pretty tiny). Then I hear a friend’s boyfriend ask if they are eating chocolate at the moment (so should I decline a slice of chocolate cake, too?).

Sometimes hearing a comment is all it takes for me to falter. I question my own behaviour - even if momentarily I am transported back to how I no longer want to think about my body and how I should treat it. Sometimes that negative voice convinces me and I am guilty of following suit, which hurts me more because time waits for no one and already I have done this too many times before. They say you never make the same mistake twice - except I did. I do, still. Every time I choose the ‘healthy’ option over the cookie I really want to satisfy my cravings, or I take myself to the gym when I just want to stay at home and eat breakfast without feeling like I need to earn it first. For being so influenced by other people’s opinions, for caring too much about what they think about how I look, ironically, only I end up missing out. They have no idea what is going on - nor any interest in what I put in or do to my body - and I lose sight of what really matters. Nobody else. And for what, I want to shout, for this? Sometimes I wonder if the universe is trying to test me. When the milk in my coffee splits, a toastie arrives not that toasted, or I get given the end slice of a brownie (typical). As though someone is watching to see my reaction. Go on, take the challenge. (I do, just not very well).