A
sense of nagging percolates the mind. It is a war between logic and emotion. Mindfulness
and urge. To resist or to purge. A purging of the body and one’s own inhibition
to want and need, but there is a small voice that still exists-- reminding
ourselves that we are enough as is.
There
is an overwhelming anxiety we cannot seem to surf, and it is what gets me into
the mess each time. Somehow, I find it an old familiar friend. A comfortable ex
boyfriend’s shirt that shouldn’t be worn, yet it always seems to find its’ way
up the cool of the body once more. We sit in our shame and comfort because it
is the only thing we have ever known. The only thing that could be worse is launching
into a sea of unknowns, and that is precisely where recovery sits for many. For
us. At least—for me.
People
wonder why we have held onto our disordered thoughts and habits so long, and I can
tell you in my experience it relates to the anxiety of the unknown. The cycle
is damning, yes, but starting over and jumping into a blank question is simply unfathomable.
There is the realization we will die in the habit, but at least it is no open ended
question aside from when. In our world, dysfunctional relationships sit as black
and white friends in whom we can confide. Dull. We do not like colors or greys.
They are too overwhelming.
We
sit in the absence of color, but this is the realm in which we know peace. Our
dull worlds serve us in several ways. Perhaps it is what we believe we deserve.
Perhaps it is what we are told we deserve. And above all—it is where we feel most comfortable.
We cannot afford failure, so we believe we cannot afford the costs that come
with the discomforts known as recovery. Instead—we have become masters of
dying. We do not know how to get well so instead we get sick. Within this convoluted
process-- we cannot fail. When we lose everyone, we push them away until ultimately
shedding ourselves. And this is what it means for the disordered to win in
sickness. We win in vanishing everyone else: the things, people, and faiths we
love, and ultimately ourselves.
When
people force recovery, we push back because the mind panics. Neurons that fire
together wire together. You are attempting to deconstruct every piece of an
illness that has become the identity—my identity, and you are attempting to
tell me I am still beautiful. A tale that a sick mind rejects like a kidney
transplant that is dejected from the body—the intentions meant well, but sometimes
it is simply not meant to be.
To
recover is seen by your loved ones as success, but you must understand that the
sick mind sees this as failure. We must train ourselves otherwise, and most
leave before we ever reach that point. It is not days, and it is not weeks. It
is not months either—but often years. Five to reach full recovery if a person sticks
it out. And that is usually after multiple falls and risings.
You
see, the sick mind is trickery and treacherous. We are good at our disorders.
Masterminds. We need you to be patient, lest you be good at grieving our loss.
We are human beings and living spirits, and we are still in there.
And
we love you—and we promise we are doing our best. Please stop pushing, and embrace
us, and remind us our best is enough. It makes a world of difference. I
promise.
It
is a matter of life and death and yes--the choice is ours—but it is a path we
cannot go alone.
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