Dear Bee,
Halloween weekend was good. Super good. The boyfriend and I did a hilarious couples costume that I have to keep anonymous due to its originality. We went out with a group of friends on Saturday, drank and danced and danced and danced, and took tons of pictures. Yesterday, we recovered, shared headaches, went to a pumpkin-carving party and then fell back asleep.
Alcohol is a dangerous social lubricant, but I like the feeling of being drunk. It’s fun. I do it very sparingly now after raging hard for a few months last year. My boyfriend doesn’t really drink much at all, and I’m glad, because I’m not the hugest partier myself. Before him, I thought I was supposed to go out every weekend, get my drink and dance on, meet guys who only wanted one thing, and come home feeling empty. That’s what the single life is all about, right? Living young and wild and free? I did it, but it never felt just right. I was always too in my head, too preoccupied with the social setting around me…I thought I needed “escape,” but, in reality, I needed to make a worthwhile life that didn’t require anything to escape from. I’m so relieved I don’t feel any need to to do that anymore. The club scene gets old. The hangovers aren’t worth it. The dancing is always the best part. I love to dance.
We’ve moved my therapy sessions to every other week due to financial constraints. The truth is, I could probably afford it, but because I’m not working or making any income whatsoever, I had to make some monetary sacrifices. And I don’t need absolute, dire clinical services right now. Thankfully. A year ago, had we moved them to every other week, those thirteen days in between sessions would have become agonizing. I would have been miserable and counting down the hours until I could just explode for sixty minutes and vent all my frustrations and fears. I now feel confident in myself. I can do recovery. I am doing it everyday.
And today we were talking a lot about triggers, addiction, and self-disclosure as a therapist. This is always a gray area: as a rule of thumb, therapists can self-disclose if they know sharing their personal experiences or input will somehow benefit the client. Doing it for their own purposes is considered unethical and possibly hazardous. I guarantee my therapist self-discloses more than the average therapist. I know about her kids, family, schooling, job, money, etc. I know about her eating disorder history, her experiences with hospitalization and inpatient and therapy and OA and psychiatric wards and the treacherous throes of anorexia and bulimia. Yes, I’ve virtually stalked her online, but the majority of this information comes straight from her mouth. In the midst of her sickness, people had considered her a lost cause. She’s been through hell. She tells me she self-discloses with her eating disordered clients because we are often the most resistant, shameful clients.
Her self-disclosure has humanized her as an individual. I trust her and know she understands what it’s like to feel obsessed with food, trapped in a mental disorder, and taking on an identity that requires you to feel “sicker” in order to feel better. I still put her on a pedestal out of my own transference issues, but I recognize that she’s been through just as much as anyone else. She can’t possibly be perfect, even though I want her to be.
Food hasn’t been much of an issue lately. I’m proud of my body. I like looking at in the mirror, in pictures, during sex. I’m proud of it. I like my arms and my hips and my boobs and my smile. I like the light in my face, the youthful glow I radiate. I’m at a low weight, one I haven’t been at since high school, and it’s interesting, because the last time I weighed this, I was severely restricting myself to stay at this golden number. As if some arbitrary number will make our lives happy. As if that’s all we ever needed. I haven’t restricted myself to get to this number this time. I haven’t ran a thousand miles or given up white carbs. I’ve just eaten what I feel like. And that includes vegetables and fruit and nuts and seeds, but it also includes real bagels with real butter and real ice cream with real chocolate and real bread with real cheese. Only when I complicate the simplistic process do I begin to spiral back into the disorder. When I just take it meal by meal, I regain my confidence.
I am so grateful that I continually give myself the invaluable gift that is recovery. There is no greater feeling than the release and liberation of self-induced bondage.
Dear Bee 