Back to the Keyboard

Since the beginning, Dr. Joe has preached to me: "Progress, M., is not a straight line."

Absorbing this as just another -ism from a guy who earns $30 an hour to tell me what to do with my life, I used to brush it off with an eye roll (a leftover gesture from my youth that I rarely even bother to hide from the guy at this point). But having ridden the bumpy roller coaster otherwise known as "Life After the Worst is Over", I can attest to this fact: progress is more like the straight line someone tripping on acid may attempt to create.

About two months ago, I walked away from this blog and claimed to have closed a chapter. I was cocky and confident and sure that I was part of the small and exclusive group of "fully recovered", "formerly-known-as" eating disorder patients. I ate whatever I wanted for a little bit (within reason...some "food rules" still lingered), embraced my new healthy body, and started to wonder what on earth was the big deal about kicking this disorder?

Every time the eating disorder started to creep in, I was quick to shut the door. I threw it down into the dark basement of my life, gave it the middle finger, and turned my back. But gradually, it started to find other ways to make it back up the stairs: seeping through the cracks and creating other paths.

So it's right what they say about this disorder. It's like an addiction that will linger for life. Like any good post-recovery eating disorder patient, I had learned to turn my back on the temptation of familiarity. However, I made the rookie mistake of charging ahead without respecting the fact that the banished eating disorder could make its way back up the stairs when I'm not paying attention.

It would be a lie to say I've been living a perfectly blissful, balanced, ED-free existence since my last post. I'm honestly not sure why I never returned to the keyboard to explain the slips and falls and stumbles I've experienced in the last few months. Maybe it was my pride. Or lack of free time. Maybe I just didn't feel like putting it all into words again. Sometimes I just convinced myself no one really gave a fuck anymore and should just keep it to myself.

There was the Tuesday afternoon in January on which I had to call LA because I suddenly started bawling at the sight of my lunch. I should really be writing through this moment because this is totally insane and I need to remember what the hell got into me all of the sudden so it doesn't happen again.

There was the day several weeks ago when I stood frozen in the grocery store, paralyzed by the realization that the brown rice I had planned to purchase could only be found in a center aisle. I had just observed a trainer at the gym recommend that a client try to only shop the perimeter of the store and suddenly felt the advice applied to me as well. I should really be writing about this. There has got to be a humorous blog post buried deep in this completely irrational hysteria.

There was my most recent Dr. K appointment, during which I realized I'm only one pound under my self-imposed "weight limit" and secretly devised a plan to drop a few pounds without anyone noticing. I should really be writing about this because I just read an article about why my body is gaining weight while marathon training and it makes perfect physiological sense...yet I'd still rather hold my hand on a hotplate than gain another pound.

There was the day last week I went back and forth...purge. Don't purge. Purge. Don't purge. And ended up throwing up everything I ate after hours and hours and hours of obsessing. And the horrible guilt that set in when I realized I should probably tell LA I just broke Cardinal Rule #1 (that would be no throwing up) after nearly three months of digesting food like a normal person. I really should be writing through this. This is a relapse and people need to understand that it happens and life goes on.

Then there was today. As I lay on a cold table at the physical therapist's office with a giant ice pack and a stim therapy hook-up on my completely jacked-up right leg, my only obsessive thought was "this is it. I'm not eating until I can run again". I really should be writing about this...because if this is where my mind automatically goes, I still have some work to do...

The progress has been tremendous. Really, it has. But Dr. Joe is (unfortunately) right when he states that progress is not a straight line. There are peaks, and valleys; and while the valleys are becoming fewer and further between, they still exist and are deserving of my words.

And as I've learned throughout the biggest growth experience of my life (um, that would be this, actually)...nearly everything in life falls short of perfect.

So I've swallowed my pride, and I'm back. Stronger than before; more resilient. Happier, more secure, and with even more honesty than before...but picking up where I left off (almost) and telling the rest of the story.