Remembering . . .
From my recovery journal part II
March 12, 2009 10:06 a.m.
What is more important than getting better? Nothing. I must focus on health and know I can have it. I just have to be patient and work hard at getting better.
But it's still very lonely at times.
In the morning, I look at all the food I have to eat, and I think, 'No way!' I choke it down; I still do not enjoy food very much. But I know I must eat to get better, to live, to have a full live with David. I must focus on that, not the negative, not being sick.
But sitting here each day by myself can drive me crazy. I can't wait to get the energy to do something - maybe put all this drivel together into a book? Are there others out there in this world going through something similar, praying to get better, often alone, but dreaming of a better time? I can't be the only one.
My energy. Sometimes my energy is so low all I can do is crash on the couch, try to read. Sometimes I just think about how I got into this mess. Sometimes I daydream of the day I return to work (it will happen!)
I know I will never be the same; I'm changed forever. I will never have that security of knowing everything is okay. I will always have to make sure I eat, and ignore that siren call of anorexia nervosa that says thin is better. I'm here to say it is definitely not better.
March 17, 2009
St. Patrick's Day
I feel so discourged I want to cry! The food, the iron pills, trying to find things to do while recovering - I'm so tired of it all. I must continue to hope, though, what else is there?
I still want to believe after all this, I will get better and I will return to work. I want to believe that so much. But I feel so lonely here, and I'm still so tired. When will the iron kick in? When will the tide turn? When will I be better?
I pray to God, but I'm not sure he hears me.
I also feel I've let David down by getting so sick. I'm the one who's suppose to be working, and he's the one who's suppose to be enjoying retirement. But it's turned out the opposite - he's working hard doing odd jobs for people, and I'm home trying to get fat (kidding! trying to gain weight.)
Later - Sometimes I think this is going to kill me.
March 18, 2009
I am determined not to fail. Let's hope my body cooperates with my mind.
March 20, 2009
Today was the straw that about broke my back. I have get a test for the hole in my heart and - possible surgery? I don't know how much more I can take.
March 21, 2009
Nobody tells the truth about anorexia. I mean, about recovering from it. They don't tell you that you have to stuff yourself each day, the equivalent of three small extra meals, to gain one freaking pound. They don't describe how painful it is to shovel that food in, how your stomach feels distended and how after dinner is your favorite time of the day because you won't have to eat again until morning. They write about rich girls with anorexia, ones who go off to treatment centers and then come out all better, wearing new clothes to fit their new bodies and seemingly having no issue with the extra 10, 20 or whatever pounds that they now carry.
They don't show how lonely it is to sit in your house, eat that breakfast, drink that Ensure, eat that lunch - it feels like you never, ever stop eating. Then you try to find something to wear, feeling uncomfortable in your alien body. Your anorexic jeans are way too tight, so you dig around trying to find something that fits - they don't tell you leggings are a great idea, and you're going to want to wear them ALL THE TIME. But sometimes, real clothes are a must. Then you must dig for some jeans that you saved that can fit your alien body, and a decent shirt that doesn't smother you.
They never tell you will begin to hate the sight of food, every bite of it, because you are so sick of eating it. They never tell you recovery will feel like forever, like the rest of your life.
All they show in the movies, magazines (oh, Mary Kate Olson, how you must have suffered!) and books is the triumphant end, the final light at the end of the tunnel, the young woman enjoying an ice cream cone or some other treat; easily, instantly cured. They don't show you the deep scars of recovery, either inside your soul or on your drained face, that won't ever leave you.
They don't tell you that the light might just be a train waiting to ram right into you, derailing you off that recovery track.
But really, what they don't know is that you will flatten yourself against the train tunnel, because you are NEVER going back again. Because you've already learned that one recovery is enough, thank you very much.