I wish so desperately that I could take certain pieces of time, and simply stay within them forever, yet I realize the best to be done is savor them in the moment because I always know it's going to feel far too short. The moments in which you have finally quieted your mind from the world that archaically spins around it, and the seconds in which your heart knows the feeling of peace. You realize the moment will soon be but a blip, but you are grateful, and appreciate it for what it is- after all. it is the little things that have always meant the most.
This summer. Five months in which so little yet so much has changed. The girl who came home at the foot of death's door is not the young woman who will embark on a new journey in but a few hours. The girl who came home was so young, but so aged. Ancient. You could see it by the bags beneath her eyes, and the sunken in bones which she carried under frail shoulders. When you look at her now, her eyes light up, and she knows of trial, but she will also tell you of hope beyond compare. Innocence in a childlike manner to which most would not be able to call upon at her age, or any for that matter. She laughs without fear of the future because she has already seen hell, and knows that she can't be worse off than she has already been before.
Making the decision at the discretion of my treatment team to come home five months ago, and undergo a month of treatment in the hospital, not to mention two months daily commute to Hershey, and actually committing to recovery was one of the most difficult choices I faced in my college career, and the years I have walked the earth thus far. To admit I was too weak to handle things on my own. I only saw failure. The image of a walking shadow who was not worthy of love, and acceptance- so much as to the point I feared being kicked out of my degree program because I felt I was invalid, and incompetent in everything I did. Merely a fraud. Eating disorders are cages, and the worst part is that the door is never locked, but we become so meticulous in making sure we can breathe, that we never think to simply open the door, and fly the hell out. I am thankful to the woman who taught me that the door was open, and that there even was a door. Who validated my thoughts, and assured me I could come home tomorrow. She will never realize that she saved my life when she opened her mouth, and spoke up- and it finally was a wake up call that I needed to go to treatment when I was at death's door, and that my education could wait temporarily lest it wait forever.
Going back tomorrow almost feels foreign. I do not know a college experience wherein anorexia has not been my bitch. Or I've been hers. Summertime was a learning curve in and of itself. I had time to live- a strange phenomenon really. Sing a whole lesson without tiring. Go out with friends, and enjoy myself. Form meaningful relationships, and learn about people's souls deep into the wonderful summer nights. Hear their stories. Lay roots. In these moments- I knew Saria was home. I wish I could freeze time because I wonder what lies ahead, and long to savor those sweet moments. But I also know that looking forward, each moment is a picture. A beautiful snapshot to savor really, for just when you think life is great, the best is yet to come darling.
This summer. Five months in which so little yet so much has changed. The girl who came home at the foot of death's door is not the young woman who will embark on a new journey in but a few hours. The girl who came home was so young, but so aged. Ancient. You could see it by the bags beneath her eyes, and the sunken in bones which she carried under frail shoulders. When you look at her now, her eyes light up, and she knows of trial, but she will also tell you of hope beyond compare. Innocence in a childlike manner to which most would not be able to call upon at her age, or any for that matter. She laughs without fear of the future because she has already seen hell, and knows that she can't be worse off than she has already been before.
Making the decision at the discretion of my treatment team to come home five months ago, and undergo a month of treatment in the hospital, not to mention two months daily commute to Hershey, and actually committing to recovery was one of the most difficult choices I faced in my college career, and the years I have walked the earth thus far. To admit I was too weak to handle things on my own. I only saw failure. The image of a walking shadow who was not worthy of love, and acceptance- so much as to the point I feared being kicked out of my degree program because I felt I was invalid, and incompetent in everything I did. Merely a fraud. Eating disorders are cages, and the worst part is that the door is never locked, but we become so meticulous in making sure we can breathe, that we never think to simply open the door, and fly the hell out. I am thankful to the woman who taught me that the door was open, and that there even was a door. Who validated my thoughts, and assured me I could come home tomorrow. She will never realize that she saved my life when she opened her mouth, and spoke up- and it finally was a wake up call that I needed to go to treatment when I was at death's door, and that my education could wait temporarily lest it wait forever.
Going back tomorrow almost feels foreign. I do not know a college experience wherein anorexia has not been my bitch. Or I've been hers. Summertime was a learning curve in and of itself. I had time to live- a strange phenomenon really. Sing a whole lesson without tiring. Go out with friends, and enjoy myself. Form meaningful relationships, and learn about people's souls deep into the wonderful summer nights. Hear their stories. Lay roots. In these moments- I knew Saria was home. I wish I could freeze time because I wonder what lies ahead, and long to savor those sweet moments. But I also know that looking forward, each moment is a picture. A beautiful snapshot to savor really, for just when you think life is great, the best is yet to come darling.
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