I Couldn’t Think Of A Title For This
so I free-wrote instead.
so I free-wrote instead.
It’s been one of those days.
I’m cocooned in bed, surrounded by bags of my carefully-sorted possessions and listening to the rain.
This is all that I know; this is all that I am; and here I am, coming full circle.
It feels like this moment has been a long time coming.
The sense of an ending; a breaking of old that is at some level perhaps the only precursor to all things new.
For we can only go so far whilst still holding on to what came before.
I’m moving. I’m leaving.
And yet of course our ghosts still live on.
Here are mine:
At the age of ten, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder.
At twelve, hospitalised.
At fourteen, sectioned under the Mental Health Act.
At seventeen, “released” into the wild.
At eighteen, the (physically) sickest I’d ever been.
At nineteen, twenty, twenty-one and twenty-two: slowly but surely, moving beyond.
I’m twenty-two now and (touch wood) doing pretty well.
Who’d have thought it?
When I first started using food as a means of managing myself and my emotions, I was a child. I didn’t know any better, and in many ways it was an effective way of showing the adults around me that I wasn’t okay.
Almost fifteen years on, I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m not a girl, either: I no longer have a prepubescent body.
Today, I had to face it. I’m no longer the size that I was. Many of my clothes no longer fit. I have breasts, hips, form that I just didn’t before — even a year ago. My body is different. As I have grown, and as my life and mind have expanded beyond what I could ever have dreamed could or would be possible for me, so has my physicality.
I take up space that I didn’t before. And I refuse to apologise for it. And I refuse to be afraid.
And yet (of course) this isn’t true.
Looking “sick” is, was, safety — or at least the illusion of it. And for a long time, being sick was my identity; I couldn’t imagine myself without it. It was known and it was comforting; it was what I felt comfortable with. And now, of course, at some level I am no longer safe; I no longer have that safety net. And I can no longer deny it to myself, either. My old clothes don’t fit — and where they do still fit, they don’t look the same.
I can no longer hide from the truth.
More than this, I can no longer hide full stop — even if (at times) I (still) want to.
I am not a child. I take up space. I command respect. And I have worked incredibly hard to get to this point in myself, in so many aspects of my life.
And despite this, it’s still terrifying.
I sit with it. I feel my discomfort. I let it wash over me. I remind myself that I am here with me. That I can take care of myself. That I can keep myself safe. That I no longer have to rely on a brittle body to keep people away.
I can use my words. I can advocate for myself. I can love and be loved. I am whole and worthy as I am. And I remind myself of this again and again and again, whenever I feel overwhelmed or afraid (which is often). And as I slow down, as I focus on nothing more than my breathing, nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other and keeping going, waves of joy and appreciation flow through me.
My body. My poor body. My amazing body. It survived, in spite of everything. I survived, in spite of everything. I made it. We made it. We did it. And we’re thriving.
Integration and embodiment.
My greatest achievement? Learning how to love and take care of myself.
All else follows.
And all else pales in comparison.
#inthetrencheswithyou
Sending love, strength and hope to all beings.