I use the term 'all-in' recovery a lot, but this past week my life has massively looked like 'anorexia recovery'. To me, the difference is that 'all-in' recovery means that I'm generally working in all areas to improve my life. It's a positive, optimistic approach to my recovery from all substances and addictions. Anorexia recovery means fighting the disease because it chose to rear its ugly head again.
This week has been about survival, plain and straight. Optimism had to take a back seat, as did working on improving my whole life. I had to focus on getting through each day, each hour, each moment, ODAAT.
I didn’t have the energy to attend meetings or meet/talk to friends, or even to focus on self compassion and practicing my therapeutic tools. I couldn't do my uni work, or chores around the house. I mostly slept, ate, and thought horrible things about myself. There were triggers, which I pinpointed and was able to email my care coordinator about, and we've set up a meeting. My duty psych also called me and gave me advice for sleeping better. I'm really proud that I reached out and followed through on speaking to them both, but it was a behemoth task.
The most important thing this week was surviving my ED again; and I haven't really had that hard of aa time with it since my first few days of recovery. Worse still, it triggered some heavy drinking and using thoughts. But I did it. I survived it.
I did it with the help of instant-grounding tools for triggers I’ve learned from my therapist, and from actually taking steps to help myself, which I never would have done before. I actually reached out to my care coordinator and my therapist, and to my 12 step fellows when I was certain I'd drink at 1AM on a Sunday. These people helped me check my reality and grounded me in my getting better, but only because I took the first steps by reaching out for help.
This was HUGE. I can’t believe how lightly I’m taking all of this. Never in my life did this even seem possible. I actually reached out for help, rather than turning to isolation and self destruction. I don't want that life for myself anymore, as romantic as it seems some nights.
I'm hugely proud of myself. I reached out for help where I knew I’d get the right support and advice. I applied tools to stop triggers and to self soothe. I chose to keep eating, and I chose not to drink or use. Before, I had none of these tools available to me. I would’ve isolated and bottled it up, not dealt with it. I’d have pushed through triggers to try to desensitise myself, and would’ve ended up drinking and using to numb the pain and flashbacks.
I genuinely can’t fucking believe these past few days have happened. Okay, I wasn’t perfect. Who is?! I ate my feelings most days. Tough shit, so does everyone when they’re extremely distressed; hunger and cravings are a natural response. And besides, if it causes me that much distress in itself, then that's something I need to talk to my care team about.
But I fucking did it. I survived, and not only that but I actively sought out the proper help and took positive steps to keep myself safe and soothe myself. I didn’t punish myself. And I did almost all of it without thinking, without choosing to. Most of it came as naturally as reaching for the bottle and the blade used to be.
And sure, those ideas still felt pretty natural, and almost enticing at times. But I didn’t want to do them. And I actively fought those feelings and thoughts, and I fucking won. For today. ODAAT.
So this is what recovery looks like. All in. This is what ‘getting better’ looks like. It's not always pretty, or optimistic, or about doodling daisies in your journal and thinking about all the cool things you want to do in life. Sometimes it's fucking hard. It's choosing to keep pushing that boulder up the hill endlessly, rather than letting it bowl you over, even when your whole body wants you to give in to familiar ease and numbness. This shit is not easy. It's harder than giving in. But it's all the more worthwhile.
Today, I am stronger than I was yesterday. Not in spite of my struggles, but because of them, and because I am still. Fucking. Here.
