I guess Im disappointed I mean, I thought I had this. Admittance on 23rd of June was supposed to be the start of a long and (uplifting) journey home. Home to a place back in which I’d never visited. Of solace, composure, serenity, equity. It was never supposed to be easy, or straight forward, but backwards? I wasn’t ever supposed to start walking, only to reverse.
A week in, she asked me if I knew who I was, and really, it had never occurred to me before. I had always thought I was ridiculously sure of myself, despite the relentless boundaries and constraints of my illness. I knew where I was right now, what I perceived, hoped, and dreamed for the future. I wasn’t in denial like many others battling. I also knew where I’d come from over the particularly horrendous and unstable twelve or so years, and I’d lain that to rest, hadn’t I?
I guess admitting myself into a place of eating and nourishing and of lack of control in which I am fed and watered (almost too regularly) wasnt going to be the cure, really, I must have known that deep down beyond the surface of my ignorance that it was going to be a much more complex emotional process than that. That maybe I could be nourished, and fed, and possibly be half-fixed physically, but that these people who were working with me professionally may not be able to put it all back together perfectly just with food, it was going to be a much deeper, draining, more painful haul – one in which I am currently making more realisations than I ever thought possible.
A long time ago something was taken away, and the only thing I am able to find on a minute to minute basis that is fully meaningful that fills up my being (that I cling onto with dear life) is my warped correlation and relationship with numbers. Without it? I dont know who I am. Because the person I began to grow to be started to dissolve and evaporate at the age of four and was completely non existent by the age of twelve – the age at which I developed my eating disorder. This leaves me slightly terrified of the idea of letting this go. My warped correlation with gravity and numbers is the only tangible thing that places any kind of valuable meaning upon my existence, my being, on a minute to minute basis, keeping me perpetually alive, giving me what I need to breathe (survive) in this physical body, wether or not I am nourished physically.
This whole corrupted, twisted situation leaves me in an awkward situation. I want life, recovery, and outward movement, but finding a way to push forth when there is no other way but down (and out) is tricky, and almost unforgivably bleak, broken, and a desolate place to be. I need a shoreline, a place to stand, solid ground, but from this place in the ocean in which I’m currently floating (trying not to sink), there is non.
Well, there is always that.