(Re) cover ed

The last few days have been a whole bunch of blah. I've been super busy finishing up with grad school. (I graduate in two weeks! Yikes!) In addition, I've been sick with the flu or maybe just a bad cold. Regardless, I've been sniffling and sneezing around my apartment feeling down in the dumpster. I've had difficulties the last few days with eating. I've had no desire to eat. It's not that I'm not hungry, and it's not that I'm consciously trying to restrict. I just don't want food. It doesn't sound appetizing.

But I've been fighting.

Appetite or not, I'm eating anyway. I'm pushing myself. It's the right thing to do. Actually, it's the only thing to do.

Starvation is not an option. It's a horrible feeling. It's a horrible word. And there's simply no place for it in my life.

There shouldn't be any place for it in your life, either.

There is, however, room for health. There is room for happiness. And there's room for hope.

Today I forced myself to eat even though I didn't really want to. I ate chocolate "ice cream". I ate chips. I ate pasta. Holy cow. I know, right? I rarely eat any of those things, let alone all of them in one day. But guess what: It didn't kill me. The world didn't stop turning. I didn't throw up. I didn't work out afterward. And I didn't gain even a pound.

Not to mention, it was yummy.

I'm so tired of being a slave to my eating disorder. The bitch doesn't own me anymore.

I have regressed, restricted, revolted, reacted, rebelled, repented, reflected, rededicated, regrouped, revamped, readjusted, refocused, reconciled, renewed, rediscovered...

and am well on my way to being

RECOVERED.

Recovery means Life

I used to avoid recovery, even when I knew anorexia was killing me and had to come to an end, because deep down I thought recovery meant failure. I thought my eating disorder, as much as I knew it was wrong, was what made me special. Recovery meant normal. Normal meant boring. Normal was everything I tried my whole life to distance myself from. Normal meant mediocre. I couldn't think of anything worse.

But I've realized recovery doesn't mean boring.

It doesn't mean normal or mediocre or bland.

Recovery just means healthy.

How can I be spectacular and different and unique if I'm dead?

Anorexia = another statistic.

Anorexia = death.

Dead means dead.

Dead means it's over. No more chances. No coming back.

But with recovery comes hope.

Hope means good things will come.

Recovery means energy.

Energy means I can do all the things I want to do.

Recovery means promise.

Promise means a chance to be all the things I want to be.

Recovery means life.

It means more than life.

It means to be alive.

Unique. Special. Free.