Expectation-- Purge

Nighttime showers were a conglomeration of pills, vomit, and shame. Water drips, as I unapologetically clean the drain of my "bad behaviors," attempting once again to not get caught. Day and night routines-- a clockwork called hell, but an inability to stop. I lived for the validation, but wound up with the deepest contempt towards myself, but this-- is what I receive praise for because the external world calls it beauty. 

I woke up in a bed with fluorescent lights filling my eyes, but cannot remember how I got to the place. Let alone-- where I might be.

I make out blurs of people who do not know me, nor I, them. Moving bodies-- quickly. Doctors shouting. Noise and panic ensue, but this all fades quickly with my consciousness as I once again kiss the twilight. I am addressed by my last name and a birthdate I do not recall having given-- but at this point it no longer matters. My other identity that remains is threading pulse-- 28, 60/38 bp, severe depleted electrolytes, and hollow shell of death. Halos sweep the lights in my brief moments of consciousness, but somewhere along the way I am told it is not my time.

I opened the gates to hell the first time I shoved two fingers down my throat. Perhaps this was never my intention, but didn't Satan also used to be an Angel? I still question the motivation, but know I am well-aware the answers in both myself and the world around me. The vanity of beauty-- yes, but more-so a release from guilt unresolved by restriction alone. Prior moments taught me that the slits on the compass of my arm would do me no good-- but no one mentioned that attempting to disappear through starvation was also inadequate for coping.

Silly me. 

My expectations were adopted creeds that society imposed on me-- the ones I continually failed to meet. The kinds of expectations I hope to one day protect my children from, but understand isn't always possible. The sorts of expectations where success is defined in academia, social class, social status, and beauty standards that I still cannot meet. I have a professor who has always told me "you do your best, and trust it will be enough," but I have spent years being subjected to my failure as a student, daughter and human being. When the departments in your high school and college reject you when you are "doing your best," and when the social standards in your life unravel at the seems-- it almost seems that the best choice is to disappear.

It turns out I'm great at that one.  

So the eating disorder becomes both a distraction and an escape. It is an excuse to forget the obligations you cannot achieve. We find peace in our new way of living and others find peace in our weakness, so each of us wins. Eventually, however when it is time to let go-- we fin
d ourselves hanging onto that son of a bitch for dear life because he has become our identity. 

But at some point-- we must let go. We either get better, or we get obituaries.

I chose life a year and a half ago when I began my ED treatment, eventually allowing tubes named Fred, and eerie i.v's to fade. I learned through this battle that I am allowed to be an individual with her own opinions and voice-- despite the many who disagree. Recovery doesn't mean I am a failure, but actually, the contrary. Recovery teaches me my professors and colleagues won't discover a "dark secret," and look at me for my failures, but instead, they encourage the crazy ambitions that come with a newfound light.

As for the people who choose judgement--they resemble rotted apples, needing to be tossed. We are too precious to be poisoned once again.

Shadows fall away, and it isn't that everything magically changes, but you learn to ignore the weight of society's expectations because they do not matter.

It turns out-- we have always been enough because they actually never mattered to begin with.