Last year, the only thing I wanted was to reach a certain weight goal on my birthday. I remember waking up that morning; the sun filtering through my curtains, as I nervously stepped onto the scale. The numbers flickered, and my heart raced with anticipation. With bated breath, I watched as the number blinked once, then twice at me. I did it. I reached my “goal weight.” Months of effort culminated in two digits. It feels like I have waited my whole life for this. Yet, instead of happiness or accomplishment, I felt an overwhelming emptiness. It was not enough. I decided then that I was not worth celebrating.
I came back home from work that day to a birthday cake and flowers proudly
presented on the coffee table. The sight of it all irritated me. Everything felt
like a mockery, a reminder of all the things I couldn’t indulge in or
celebrate. I blew out the candles and wished I was smaller, smiling in photos
only to spend hours later criticizing my appearance. Thus began another year of
self-loathing. Another year of hating my body. I despised being confined to
this miserable illness. Things got worse from there. I chased arbitrary goals
and numbers. Nothing was ever good enough. There was no “small enough” it was
all a lie. I just wanted to disappear.
Six months later, on a cold January evening, I stared at a text I just
received after opening up to someone. My phone shook in my weak hands as it all
came crashing down on me. I was completely alone. I isolated myself and
destroyed everything; myself included. With what little strength I had, I
called my mother from the next room, broke down, and asked for help. That was
the start of my recovery journey.
In the beginning, I was very resistant to any help. I firmly believed that I
wasn’t sick. It had to be a mistake. ‘There are people sicker than me,’ I
argued. “I don’t deserve this!” I shouted. I spent countless nights crying,
wishing to be anywhere but here. Since I was barely tethered to reality anyway,
it wouldn’t matter if I let myself go. So I vowed to destroy myself further.
Once my family caught on to my intentions, I had to sleep in my mother’s
room because she was afraid I would not wake up to see another morning. I cried
before my therapy sessions, and when my therapist asked me what I ultimately
wanted, I remember saying, “I want to live, not just exist.” But it was easier
said than done, and I believed I was too far gone to be helped.
So I wept, and I screamed, and I resisted some more until I ultimately ended
up in the hospital. The doctor gently told me I needed to stay overnight
because my heart was unstable. Because even though I was eating again,
everything in me was fighting against getting better. That night, I watched my
mother sleep on the hospital sofa and I vowed to recover for real this time. I
did not want to spend the rest of my life in a hospital bed. I was tired of
everything. The constant screaming in my head exhausted me. It was an endless,
relentless fight to stay alive.
On the 22nd of March, I told my mom I wanted to recover. Trembling in fear,
I faced the carrot cake in front of me and ate it as if it were a rare
commodity. Because at that time, it was. I hoped the recovery journey would be
easy, but it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It was like
experiencing growing pains and puberty at 23. During the first two months, I
cried almost every day. I went from being force-fed to having a hunger so
insatiable that it terrified me. I cycled through different emotions of
sadness, anger, momentary happiness, and grief. No one could predict what I
would feel on a certain day. I didn’t even understand what I was going through
or why I was grieving so much. But we took it one day at a time until I
stabilized.
By the third month, things began to even out. My appetite normalized. I
stopped punishing myself with exercise, and I smiled more and laughed
wholeheartedly. Gradually, I felt more and more like myself, and I began to
regain my life. I became stronger and healthier. Despite still having bad days,
the good ones outweighed them. I woke up every day feeling so grateful that I
was alive.
Some days it feels like I have spent a lifetime in recovery, but on others, it feels like the time passed in the blink of an eye.
As I start my fourth month in recovery, I recognize I am still at the beginning
of my journey. I have much to learn and unlearn. I am still working my way out
of the hole I dug myself into two and a half years ago, but I am no longer
alone. As I make my way out, I feel the sun’s warmth near the surface, hear the
wind’s whispers, and cling on to my family’s love and my dreams.
In the same way, it takes a village to raise a child in this world. It takes
a village to heal from something like an eating disorder. Last week, my
dietitian said “You spent all this time, all your
early twenties, worrying and counting, and refusing to live your life. But you
have people taking care of you now, from your family to your therapist, to
your doctors. You can let live your life now.” She’s right. I can heal within
that circle of care if I allow myself to heal. I can live my life and trust
that the people within that circle of care will take care of me. Because I was
always worthy of that love and care. I was always worthy of healing.
With my 24th birthday approaching, I promise myself that I will live. I will
eat birthday cake and blow out my candles and wish for healing. I have proven
to myself that I can overcome more than I think I can. I will prioritize my
well-being and reciprocate all the love and care that others have given me.
I promise to make 24 one of the most joyful years of my life. I will ensure
that I fill my days with gratitude and joy. I will fulfill my dreams and ensure
that my days are brimming with happiness. I promise I will continue healing, even
on the hard days. I will weave the pain and hope into something beautiful.
So that by this time next year, I can say I have fully recovered.
I will have survived and come out stronger, healthier, and happier.
I will have lived.
-hammie
3:54 pm
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