Our fucked up ideals

Another journal entry I'd like to share. This speaks to our society's fucked up ideals and judgments, and touches on one of the major faults I have come to notice in the way that centers that treat eating disorders are set up.

"I finally vented to someone (a counselor named Marisa) about the way ERC is so much more targeted to the treatment of undereating than the struggle of overeating and/or binging. This center and frankly most centers are so focused on making certain that the patients are eating enough that the fact that for some, saying "I am not hungry" is a victory goes unnoticed and unacknowledged. Because of this attitude even amongst patients it's generally more acceptable or "cooler" to struggle with Anorexia or undereating, so even those whose primary or only struggle is eating when not hungry, overeating and/or binging will often pretend their struggles are what they aren't; thus their treatment is ultimately a waste of time, ineffective, as they never address the true issue, and they may even leave worse off than when they arrived. I know for me it's now hard to NOT eat at specific times - even if I'm not at all hungry. That is counterproductive...that's making the situation worse than it was to begin with. I think I'm going to bring this up in Community group today. People here are more ashamed of overeating and often even proud of restricting/starving, and THEY'RE ALL EATING DISORDERS. Disorders. Ideally we'd never see one as somehow "better" than another. We are all here to have a go at/attempt recovery. Ideally, there wouldn't be any judgment around any of it, let alone pride - it's sad and fucked up that anyone would be proud of any self harming behavior. Disordered behavior in any form serves a purpose of some sort and at times one of the functions, for some, is to get attention, to "be seen", and that is very often judged as well, which is also screwed up. If that weren't so judged the people who use their behavior to serve that purpose would be less likely to hide that truth, that that is one of the major functions or a need being met, and they'd be able to address it, and more likely to get well sooner.

And the pride that so often accompanies certain eating disordered behavior or a starved body speaks to a lot of different types of dysfunction, including but not limited to how screwy our society as well as what is considered attractive is.

Are we all not human beings? We are born a certain way and that's it; we all have bodily functions and voices and eyes and hands if we're lucky, we all age, we all develop personalities and values and belief systems...we all have emotions and desires and intentions that serve functions. All of us have needs and those needs are constructed based on what we are taught and learn is right or what we believe or the way we're born and come into the world to begin with. How did we come to construct these completely bizarre, pointless and even harmful ideals? Who decided one day what was "ugly"? What was shameful? Random examples, scars and stretch marks. Most of us have them. What about them makes them so unacceptable or undesirable? Were we bored one day - did we develop ideals to have rules to follow, to give us ways to spend our time? Because I can think of a lot of ways to spend our time that would be a hell of a lot more meaningful, graceful, kind, loving, and productive. What the hell has happened in our society?"

That's all for today.

Something feels different this time.

Hi, everyone -

It's been a long while since I've updated this blog; a lot has happened since, but here I am - still here, still alive in the world. I have a lot to tell you, but I'm going to make the focus of this entry the journal entry I want to share with you, and I'll come back tomorrow and the next day and fill you in on the rest.
Those of you who know me know that I have suffered with this illness - the eating disorder, both Anorexia and Bulimia, as well as the Depression - chronically. It has been chronic, it has been severe, and the prognosis was not good. I am not the only person who had come to believe that I could not get better; I expected death, by the eating disorder or, more likely I thought, suicide.
I want to get to bed soon-ish because I am currently in treatment at the Partial level of care (you go during the day but sleep somewhere else) and have to wake up freakishly early to get there on time, but basically, the purpose of this particular blog entry is this: I want people to know that recovery is possible, even when you've given up on yourself. Even for the "Chronic", the hopeless. No matter how long you've been suffering and/or how bad it's been, something can shift, and it can happen when you least expect it. This entry may be missing some things, as I'm in a hurry, but I promise not to ditch the blog again; I want to share what I'm doing with others, particularly those who feel desperately hopeless, and I'll come back and fill you all in. So here's the entry I wrote in my personal journal just over an hour ago:

"Holy hell, I just spent the last three hours actually with other people, talking and engaging...with one of my roommates, M____, and another girl in Program, M____, who came over. SO out of character for me: every day I come back to the apartment, shut my door, and watch Netflix until I can fall asleep. I have grown to be afraid of actually interacting with others, and I never told anyone that I'm well aware that this 'routine' is isolation and based out of fear and anxiety, because I didn't want to have to change. But tonight M____ and I were walking back to the apartment together from where the Van drops us off, and we were talking, and it was fun...so I had a cigarette with her on our balcony. And we grew more and more honest and vulnerable with one another, and I grew progressively more and more comfortable, so I stayed. I became internally anxious when she told me M____ was coming over; I didn't know her well. But I decided to give her a chance. I told them I'd have to go call my parents and shower soon because I wanted an 'out' - but I stayed, and I wound up staying for hours, until it was getting late (considering how early I wake up) and I had to tear myself away to go actually shower. Generally I'd immediately watch Netflix after a shower (and it should be noted that my showering on a regular basis is not only major progress but incredibly recent), but I thought it would be good for me to journal. I'll probably watch a little of my show or read before bed, but tonight I'm choosing to veer away from my rigidity and routine - and to let that be okay.
My progress amazes me. It's incredible. It took ten months in treatment for it to become noticeable, measurable progress, but lately it's been one miracle after another - obvious things, and so fast. I have never done my laundry on a regular basis. I have gone months without doing laundry. I became so used to not doing it that I became afraid, in a weird way, to do it - I'd occasionally have thoughts about it, but not doing it was so much easier, safer, and more normal to me. I have done my laundry not once but twice in the last week, and I've come to discover that it just isn't that big of a deal. Not only does it take VERY little time, but doing it helps me to feel empowered, proud, and more confident that my recovery may actually last this time. This time may actually be different. For most people on this planet, doing their laundry is not groundbreaking: but I have lived with myself for over 25 years now, and I know what a big deal it is for me. It IS groundbreaking, for me, and it's a sign that something is honestly changing. For months now I've been trying every day to get myself to do it, but each time I'd tell myself: "Come on now...you know you're never actually going to."
And so I never did.
Today, I do my laundry. And that makes me brave.
Tonight I looked at my heavy body in the mirror, naked, after the shower; and I told myself that I was beautiful. What I am doing right now, and the ways in which I am changing, is a miracle.
I don't often go into the details with people about the severity of the behaviors I used or of the medical complications I suffered as a result because I don't want to 'trigger' anyone (people with eating disorders are often triggered by such things when in their illness), and because today I am not proud. But that I am alive is mindblowing. My body has suffered from sixteen YEARS of abuse - and I did not have a "mild" or "moderate" eating disorder. I have been in critical positions medically over, and over, and over - and I WANTED to die, because I was so desperately, despairingly anguished and hopeless, that I would not see a doctor or go to the emergency room - knowing that I was critically ill physically. I hoped that it would kill me. The miracle of my survival, of my body's resilience, felt like punishment - a curse. I would be up at some ungodly hour when everyone else was asleep because I could NEVER sleep, crying because I was alive.
For the first nine months or so of my treatment here at Eating Recovery Center, not much was different as far as my mental state was concerned. I spent every single therapy session with my beautiful therapist - and this was three times a week for nine months - talking about the depth of my hopelessness. My despair. How I wished things could be different - and I honestly did - but that I knew that things could not and would not change for me.
...and then, things did. Things began to change, after over a decade and a half, so slowly at first that I didn't notice. And then still so slowly, I thought I was imagining it. Then STILL so slowly, and it felt so impossible still, that I was too afraid to trust that it could be legitimate.
Very, very recently, I began to notice that something had definitely changed, and I slowly allowed myself to begin to believe that the small shifts I saw and felt in myself might be real. And I was scared, I was terrified, that by daring and pushing myself to believe in myself, and to allow myself to begin to have hope, that I was setting myself up to feel shattered. I had wanted things to change - I had been praying for the ability to experience hope - for years, and it felt like it was so unrealistic and unlikely and impossible that I could ever actually REALLY feel hope that I felt by believing it was real, I was almost being mean to myself.
It still scares me on some level, to allow myself to trust that these changes could last. But oh boy, I do let myself feel hope. And - I'll say it - even JOY. And confidence, empowerment, PRIDE. Yes, in MYSELF.
I also feel uncertain, and I feel afraid, and nervous. I feel suspicious. I am by no means, in NO way, overly confident.
Both are possible at the same time.
I have no clue what my future will bring. I'm utterly in the dark about what that will look like. I have a very deep understanding of the fact that it is extremely likely that I will relapse again. It's actually probably more likely, considering the history, than not.
But I allow myself this much: something feels different. I suspect that the outcome may be different this time.
It feels amazing.
Don't get me wrong - on occasion I have thoughts like: "Who are you kidding?"
But I have retorts. I choose not to indulge those thoughts.
There was a time in my life when I didn't have a choice."

That's all, for tonight. I'll be back. Love, peace, hope to you all <3

Sofia