I mean, you were obviously around this weekend. In the mirrors and on the scales and in the food I ate. You were there lurking in the booths at each and every restaurant at each and every meal.
That’s not to say I didn’t have a good weekend, because I did. I had a fabulous weekend with my boyfriend. We had a vacation house to ourselves, where we were able to lounge in the jacuzzi, hike pretty mountains, and enjoy gorgeous beaches. He is the best thing that has ever happened in my life, that I know. But, still a part of me, wishes I could be fully and 100% present to soak in every delicious vibrance of this love.
I recognize that last sentence streams into perfectionism. There is no 100%. It is impossible. And nobody can be fully present. After all, that is what distinguishes humanity from all other animals. Because we are able to think and explore alternative meanings, our minds are constantly wandering to the past and future. To expect to live in the exact moment at every single exact moment would not only be irrational, but it could also be detrimental. Imagine if we only had our impulses to drive us into what we wanted to do. We would have no way to self-regulate, own responsibility, or make intelligent decisions based on our unique needs and wants. In other words, we would live in chaos.
I ate a lot of carbs this weekend. There was pizza and pasta and calzones and fudge and burritos. So, yes, I ate a variety of food. This is a simple statement. Also a neutral statement. It’s the meaning I want to attach to it. My eating disorder wants to attach the negative dialogue (of course) and tell me that I’m hedonistic, gluttonous, a failure at recovery, grotesque, disgusting, and weak. My “positive-affirmation” warrior side of me counterbalances those insults by telling me that I’m allowed to enjoy life, that one weekend won’t kill me, that food is just food, and I’m absolutely not grotesque, disgusting, and weak. I want to believe both, but I will choose to listen to the warrior side, because the disordered side just wants to keep me sick, and I’m fully aware of that. I’m not a bad person for what I ate. I’m not a bad person for experiencing certain feelings or thoughts about these foods. I’m in recovery, and it gets hard. Especially on vacation.
I am done weighing myself again for awhile. At least for a few weeks. I’ve been letting that number dominate my emotions and thoughts about my body image way too much. I gave up the scale for about six months at the beginning of this journey, and I can give it up again. There is no reason to measure myself by an electric number, not at these stages of recovery. However, I have rationalized the stepping up and down on the scale, attempting to convince myself that I’m just “checking the number” just to “see my progress.” This is unhealthy for me. This is way too dangerous. I’m realizing it now. I have come WAY too far to backslide into the never-ending, addictive quest to reach a new lowest weight. And that’s exactly where you will take me…down that slippery slope that promises eternal beauty and happiness. Bullshit. There’s no beauty or happiness attached to a weight. There never was, and there never will be.
I’ve been working on that novel for Nanowrimo…so far, so good. I’ve missed fiction writing. I like letting my characters unravel their stories into complex and intricate plots. I have a loose idea of the beginning and the end. The middle is a little more fuzzy. Kind of like recovery. I remember where I started, and I have a vision of what the end chapters will look like, but all that lies between…that’s really up in the air, isn’t it?