My paper has become the most healing, cathartic, valuable tool in my recovery. My followers. Comments. Support from all these people I have never even met.
But sometimes nothing is enough. Love is not enough from those closest to me, sometimes inspiration and motivation fails me, sometimes bulimia tramples down hope into a mesh of intertwined shards of broken dignity.
Who am I, if not the very entity of my disorder? I sometimes don’t know.
These are the lowest points; at these times the world stops and the eating disorder contaminates every thought, plan, hope, dream, ambition. It kills my soul so that it can live in the shell of my body.
But I won’t leave, I won’t die, I will just hide from it every now and then until I am strong enough to fight again. And while I hide I build my energy, I listen to those who care, I plan my next take on defeating it.
I hide in my feet until I am strong enough to rise again because my mind has been consumed by the disorder. I look the same on the outside and that is my only comfort. On days like today, when I feel I have rotted and shrivelled, to everyone else I am still the girl they perceive. And so I put on a brave face to hide the miserable truth behind my conceitful smile.
I will it away. I will away the illness and the cries of mental pain it insists on infiltrating my head with. The cries of fatness, the body dysmorphia, the cries that I am not good enough. I know it is a liar, but it is hard to believe that when it deafens logic with its shrill existence. Fucking bulimia.
I know these feelings and thoughts will go, and they will get less and less as they gradually evaporate into the musty air of my past. But occasionally they still pounce on me but I am getting stronger and stronger and stronger at fighting them off.
The days of recovery, happiness, health are more prominent and common now than those of self-destruction, depression, fear and confusion which dominated my life just this time last year. Bulimia is dying in me. I am forcing it out of me. I wish I could purge the illness itself but unfortunately that isn’t possible, thus I keep battling with the thoughts and counteracting them with rational logic that poisons their existence and makes them dissolve in a pleasant smoulder of mockery.
I will beat bulimia. I will not let it make me hate myself, I will not let it make me wish my life away.
I can see the light at the end of the long winded tunnel now, and it is just a case of getting there. It is so damn bright that I have no choice but to close my eyes and squint sometimes, shield myself from it because I am so used to visualising the road ahead in bleak, plain darkness. The light is beautiful but glaring. And when I have to occasionally close my eyes so that they can rest in the darkness to which I am adjusted – that is when bulimia gets the better of me. I am going back to the eyes and darkness with which I used to see. But gradually, the longer I approach the light for, the more adapted I become. Soon, I wont have to comfort myself with old, miserable, contaminated vision ever again. The only way it will be visible again is if I look back on steps that I have already taken. But they will be behind me.