Anxiety Fear Hope Desire Love Beauty Depression Panic Fragmented Life Death Heaven Christ
Emotions and words swirl through my mind like a fast-moving tornado heading dead center for its target. "Left of Center" by Suzanne Vega is playing. The watery sun is setting on the deep, dark green grasses and newly bloomed bushes. Aliena sits in the window, ready to pounce on any stray bug which crosses her path.
I am cold. I am hot. I can't think.
I leave for Renfrew in one week. I'm afraid I will fail. I'm afraid I will succeed. I'm afraid ...
Thirty days. Away from my home. Away from my husband, my friends. I will be alone each night, trying to sort out each day as I work toward recovering from anorexia. There will be memories stirred up, things I would rather forget. I will face food I am afraid of and I will need to eat it. I will need to talk about how I feel.
How do I feel? My emotions are in upheaval right now. How am I supposed to feel? Should I continue to mourn the life I lost when anorexia hit me at 41? Or do I move forward, knowing that person died years ago and it is time for the resurrection of a new me? Do I rage against the neighborhood boy who sexually abused me? The uber-conservative church of my childhood which left me feeling dirty and knowing I was hell-bound? Do I continue to be angry because alcoholism and depression made my childhood feel unstable and rocky?
How do I let go of it all?
I believe I must let go in order to recover. I must let go of everything. Anger. Secrets. Laxatives. Cutting. Enemas. Restricting. Control.
Playing at recovery.
I will have to turn my entire life over to complete strangers for thirty days, and that will require a hell of lot more trust than I've ever been able to give anyone.
But I can't take it anymore. I will not be able to live much longer with anorexia. I can't take waking up each morning crying and hating life because ... because I'm me.