Reminiscing on Recovery

January

I am skinny now. I always was skinny. But now I am enviably skinny. I am lean. I am strong.

None of my clothes fit. They all hang loose. Even my leggings.

My arms are defined. My collarbones are protruding. I can see my scapulas when I push my shoulders back.

I live in fear of losing this skinniness, this strength. I lift and climb and walk every day. I love my new body. I don’t miss food. I tell myself these lies every day.

February

I cry when I remember the night we walked home from the concert. I was crying because I was so sleepy and scared of the future, and you tucked me into your twin dorm bed after the long walk home. And I got up at 4am and went back to LA. I thought I hated LA. I do hate LA. But I miss LA.

It dawns on me that I will never have that time of my life back. It is gone. Forever. Alive only in my memories.

Do you miss me?

I miss you.

I tell myself that I don’t.

But I do.

We always crave the familiarity of the past. The present will only be familiar once I am in the next chapter. But the next chapter feels very far away.

March

Is it possible to be alive again?

Not in some distant future. But right now.

When did I stop being the main character? Whose story am I in if not my own?

I catch glimpses of what the future could be - my future - if I wasn’t so scared of following my desires, of listening to my yearning heart,

if I wasn’t so scared of disappointing everyone around me.

the glimpses were enough, though: a flicker of hope.

finally, a reason to get better.

April

I reminisce.

I reminisce on when I first lost the weight and there were no expectations and I was doing everything for myself and not for everyone else.

I was doing things out of love and joy. Not fear.

But now there are expectations to meet, standards to uphold.

I want to buck them, but only have the courage to do it half-heartedly.

I begin writing again.

May

I remember why I hated writing. I am never sure if what I am saying is the truth. Things were so different then. I was so different then. He was so different then. How can I be sure I am remembering it all correctly?

Everything was so lovely and horrible at the same time. It was so impermanent, transient.

I read neuroscience books about how we don’t experience reality as it really is. Our brains predict reality. They fill in the gaps. Which means his reality was never my reality, your truth not my truth. So there is no truth to write about, anyway.

This is why I hate writing.

June

I brag about back when I was skinny. I want them to know I used to be stronger, better.

Maybe you would have loved me then.

He did love me then.

I try harder. I insert more control.

I push and push and push.

It’s hard to tell if I am even going anywhere.

I wish someone had told me sooner that the trick is to stop trying. To just breathe.

July

I am so scared. Scared of not pushing. Scared of stopping.

But at least I know what I want.

At least I am fierce and angry and alive enough to fight for it.

Because this is worth fighting for.

But when this ends, I will have nothing. I will sacrifice this addiction for a new one: you.

I will be lost to the current, forever floating downstream.

So I keep swimming against it. Or rather, flailing. I am making no progress.

August

I stay busy to stave off the loneliness, the uncertainty, the spiraling. I look for an antidote for my restless mind in the bag of cookies, the jar of peanut butter, scraping the bottom with my spoon. I strive for control in the third gym session of the day, in the podcasts, in the books. Doing, doing, doing.

I can’t run from it all forever.

But the thought of feeling it is unbearable.

I struggle to catch my breath.

September

I break. It snaps like a rubber band stretched too taut. I have shattered. I am out of energy to resist. I am forced to surrender.

I am left with nostalgia, nesting, nothingness. Just negative emotions.

I fall into the rhythm of the seasons. I float with the stream rather than against it. I have no other choice.

My colors change like the leaves. My mind turns grey like the branches.

It’s terrifying to trust.

October

I am alone and I don’t want to let anyone back in. I refuse to let anyone disrupt the peace it took so long to find.

Please don’t steal my energy, blur my path, cloud my North Star.

Can I ever feel in control again?

I never was in control, anyway.

November

Love is unconditional. If it’s not unconditional, it’s not love. I don’t know what it is then.

I need someone to fall in love with my spirit, my soul.

I need that someone to be me.

December

It’s funny how everything I needed all this time, it’s always been right here.

A sigh of relief. An exhalation of joy.

Floating & drifting & being.

Enough.