I’ve been trying to write a post for this blog for months but I can’t find the time, more like motivation to write something, anything. In June it will be one year since I re-entered treatment for the third time. Although I can’t remember the exact day at the moment, it was all a blur my first few days there but maybe it’s for the best.
That’s the crazy thing about treatment, people who have never been have their own idea of what treatment is like based mostly off of madly representations in the media but one thing they do get right is that it’s a completely different world. To go there you have to put your life on hold. Jobs have to be quit, school has to be put on hold. You can’t even live at your house or sleep in your own bed for months at a time and the bed at the center is never as comfortable as your real one.
I know I annoy people when I talk about my recovery and history with an eating disorder. I know many of them probably don’t believe me because I am fat instead of severely underweight. I also know that I talk about because if I don’t I will die.
Some people want to applaud me for talking about it but they don’t realize it’s for my own twisted, selfish reasons. I don’t want to die and if I don’t talk about it, how hard it is I know that this disorder will win. It’s easier to talks to group of people in class or chapel, people who I don’t know very well if at all. People who I don’t care if they dislike me for it or think I’m a liar. But with friends it’s harder. People I care about, who know me, they’re rejection would hurt much more. And it hurts just as much when I do bring it up and they don’t know what to say.
I know the situation well. They’ll look at their hands or behind me, peak at their phones and then silence of the worst kind. Then to erase the awkwardness I crack a joke and change the subject let down that they don’t understand but how could they? They’re lucky they can eat like a normal person.
They can eat and I can’t.