When I first started doing confessions all that time ago, I was in the height of striving for recovery. I was waiting for the day when I would wake up and feel better and act better and just do better at life. I wrote about the struggles, I wrote about the mini successes, I wrote about the mini relapses.
My eating disorder began when I was 17. But in a way you could trace it back a lot further, back to the low self esteem and body hate that followed me through my childhood and teen years. Growing up, I just didn’t want to accept who I was. All I wanted to do was change.
In the last two or three weeks, I find my body checks have significantly reduced, my eating is not dictated by emotion and is not a starve nor a binge, I am exercising for the craic and for the relief it gives my anger and my leg stiffness, and I can look in the mirror (like I did for 30 minutes today while the stylist cut my hair) and not freak out about what a stain my reflection puts on this earth.
I can see some dark circles under my eyes which suggest that I could get a little more sleep. Sometimes, I pinch an inch somewhere between my waistband and my bra line and wonder if I could adjust some things to lose some weight. There are moments when I feel like I am more hair than woman. But these are fleeting moments in comparison to the ease I feel on a regular basis.
I’m not quite sure that this is exactly loving my body. But it is a major step in accepting my body. There have been moments along the way in which I hoped that a day like this may arrive. It was more realistic once I realised my idea of recovery was too perfect and too ideal to be a true possibility. This non-extremist approach is helping. So are the unrelenting opinions and support of the people I love (especially A.)
For the last while, I have felt like I have been right at the end of the tunnel but still stuck where I was. Now, I think I might be able to finally leave.