Job 2½ - Recovery - Part Two

With 30 years of diet culture under my belt, a measly five of which I have spent trying to undo it, I expect to slip up. Feeling physical growth is my most uncomfortable. Eating disorder is first and foremost internal - changing the narrative around ‘good’ and ‘bad’ foods and how my body ‘should’ look - as far as I am concerned, more importantly, I want to say, it is visible. A by-product of rewiring my brain, the progress I make probably will result in weight gain. Something people might notice (and talk about), which is fine (on anyone but me) if it was not exactly what I have been trying to avoid and has underlay every decision I have made regarding my body to date since I can remember.

I go round in circles, dancing to the tune of One Step Forward Two Steps Back. One tiny thing and the eating disorder is back, like a ninja in waiting, loud, loose-tongued and persuasive. Celebrating NB’s 5th birthday, woohoo-oh my God five years and I am only here? Yes, I have things to be grateful for - and I am proud of NB to an extent - but I work alone to come home alone, often I feel lonely, and sad that NB is not giving back to me what I want it to; actually I feel like I have made nothing of myself. Not like I am living this great life earning millions of pounds running a super successful food brand internationally recognised and which I am famous for. I do not really have anything else to fall back on. I have not had a relationship in years, far from one. My body - how I look - is my most prized possession and worthy asset, if anything the only thing I have and can use to attract someone, to find the love I want!

This is typical thinking for me; it is the same charade every time. When I am not working hard enough - when I remember I have no comfortable salary nor am I seeing progress, or achieving any of the results I want from NB - I punish myself for gaining weight, or what feels like I have, if my clothes feel tight or simply I dislike what I see in the mirror - and there is always something wrong. I use exercise as a bargaining tool; often I act more out of habit than want; discipline acts as both a trait of commendation and a curse, and I am very good at it. Comparing myself against an older (smaller) version - anyone who is slimmer or more athletic-looking than me. I catch myself being mean and still do not know how to stop, unable to disagree with my eating disorder’s vile thoughts. Even though the idea of having so much hatred towards my body that has done nothing wrong or untoward towards me is crushing. The reality of losing my period to weight loss for over ten years, because of me, devastates me. Even then, there is no nice way of putting it, the connection between me looking ‘good’ and being ‘good’ is too strong; I care too much about appearances to fully commit to recovery and restoring my health.

In 2021, I chose to stop going to therapy, not nearly fully recovered, or not how I want to be; I trusted myself enough to keep moving towards change. How do I get happy now? Becoming my own cheerleader requires laser focus (Will Power is a great comfort here). The responsibility is a lot to sit with. I have to be the one to commit; there is so much pep-talk involved, tears, too; the conversations between the voice I want to hear and the other voice I want to ignore are constant. My head is a battleground. I get flashes of how good my life could be - I am just as excited as I am nervous - almost like I want to get there as much as I am fine not to. And when panic starts to rise in my throat, when I am really struggling to overcome negative thoughts about my body, a motivational speech needs to never be far from reach. I dig deep and ask myself, is this the life I want to live? Rereading menus after dinner to determine what I ‘should’ have ordered instead; choosing to seek out my insecurities only to reduce myself to them as a result. Body change comes before body acceptance, so be it, would I rather restrict myself and live in a smaller deprived body, or be loved in a body that is true-to-size and reflective of what I want to eat and how often I exercise? A lot of the time I answer out loud, I have to voice it to make myself hear it. The compulsion of an eating disorder is hard to ignore, the obsession for more; however aware I am that doing more only makes me want to not live like this even more - as much as I want to end this emotionally abusive relationship. Recovery presents itself as a clever decoy here. I want the freedom and peace it promises; I am walking towards everything I am afraid of.

I have learnt to accept that physically I cannot progress quicker than I am. Unlike a broken bone or visibly diagnosable or well-known illness, there is no right script or time frame to cure an eating disorder. That there is even a distance in emotional capacity I have to travel to get to a place of content is ridiculous, that this state of calm is what some people constantly live in is mindblowing. Anyone who has managed to avoid my way of thinking, I admire you - my role models. Conscious, perhaps, but care-free (wow!). Whilst I can barely take one day off exercise as though my life and legacy depends on it.

As with any invisible illness, mine puts me in a funny predicament. I definitely do not want to be seen as ill, especially over a basic human function, equally I do not want to be ignored or undermined as though an eating disorder is not as real or valid as a physical injury. I do not want a gesture of sympathy - a bunch of flowers, box of chocolates (good one) or Get Well Soon card - please, let’s not draw attention to the shame I feel for doing this to myself. Almost as much as I do wish someone showed up with a token of recognition: I see you, you are fab, I am rooting for you, keep going! Because to try and recover on my own when I already feel alone on this journey is enough, and I know I have got further to go. To hold that weight is a lot to live with, mind the pun. Fear is my biggest setback - of the unknown, of what people may or may not say or think about me - it prevents me from doing what I really want to, but also fear is not a good enough reason for me to not try. Moments of freedom are worth it, I think, I hope. However far and few between, however small and indistinguishable - however much I loathe the process (and myself at times for testing it) - I have to celebrate the wins because if it is not me, nobody else will. They can try, but I am not sure popping Champagne for having a cheese toastie (and especially not subsequently overthinking it) or buying bigger jeans is wholly explainable (and I want the whole bloody fanfare!).