I know recovery isn't an end place, it is a destination. I just wish I wouldn't have days where I felt like I have fallen so far back into that same place. I hate that these "bad days" are really more like "bad weeks" that I have to struggle through. I hate that I can love my body and love the progress I've made to have it all completely shattered.
I hate that this feeling doesn't just last the day. I hate that I feel like a failure. I hate that I don't even want to look at myself when I feel like this. I can't bring myself to eat anything more than I absolutely have to because I just can't bear the thought of getting fatter than I already feel like I am.
I hate that every time I’m on the treadmill my thoughts are flooded with “5 more minutes and you’ll be skinny; 5 more minutes and maybe boys will look at you at the bar.” I should be running for me. Every time my foot pounds on the seemingly never-ending platform I view it as one step closer for me to achieve beauty. Instead of a step towards health I am working to achieve acceptance.
I hate that I don't enjoy something I love. Walking into my dance studio causes me more stress and anxiety because I know everyone else sees how fat I am in my leotard and tights. I want to feel light and pretty and graceful as I pirouette across the floor but I feel like an elephant in a tutu pretending to dance. I shouldn't leave class at night and want to cry because I was too worried about what other people were thinking about me instead of dancing.
I hate that I’m supposed to be an advocate for positive body image and I can’t look at my naked body in the mirror. I talk up everyone around me: “eat that cupcake, you don’t need outside approval, who you are as a person is important,” yet every time I look down I grab my stomach rolls in disgust. I hate that I'm supposed to be recovered and be able to talk to other people about recovery when I can't look at myself with nothing but disgust.
I hate that I don’t understand how to love myself. I don’t know how to be happy about who I am. I want to look at myself beyond my not-so-flat stomach and thighs that seem closer than I am with my family. Why do I seek so much outside approval?
My body isn’t everything – in fact it isn’t anything. It is a vessel I use to achieve my goals. My love handles do not define me. And as acutely aware as I am of this fact I cannot help but cry when I look down from that hideous angle in the shower. The frustration I feel when getting ready to go out never fails to dampen my mood.
Knowing and feeling are completely unrelated emotions. I know I am more than my body and yet I feel as if a perfecting it is the answer to all of my problems. Rational thought, as prevalent as it may be in my head, cannot hold a candle to the prison of my self-hatred. It does not do much to my self-esteem when I am at a bar surrounded by men who do not give me a second look. It doesn’t do much to see “real” models in a magazine when I can barely button my jeans.
But I will slap on a smile, feed the words I myself cannot absorb to my fragile friends, and continue on in my path to bring light to the darkness of others. I have to smile and pretend like nothing is wrong. Because I'm recovered, I shouldn't have weeks where I am in the same place I claim to be getting away from.
I can only hope that maybe a time will come where I don't have these weeks any more. Maybe one day I will learn to accept myself.
I hate that this feeling doesn't just last the day. I hate that I feel like a failure. I hate that I don't even want to look at myself when I feel like this. I can't bring myself to eat anything more than I absolutely have to because I just can't bear the thought of getting fatter than I already feel like I am.
I hate that every time I’m on the treadmill my thoughts are flooded with “5 more minutes and you’ll be skinny; 5 more minutes and maybe boys will look at you at the bar.” I should be running for me. Every time my foot pounds on the seemingly never-ending platform I view it as one step closer for me to achieve beauty. Instead of a step towards health I am working to achieve acceptance.
I hate that I don't enjoy something I love. Walking into my dance studio causes me more stress and anxiety because I know everyone else sees how fat I am in my leotard and tights. I want to feel light and pretty and graceful as I pirouette across the floor but I feel like an elephant in a tutu pretending to dance. I shouldn't leave class at night and want to cry because I was too worried about what other people were thinking about me instead of dancing.
I hate that I’m supposed to be an advocate for positive body image and I can’t look at my naked body in the mirror. I talk up everyone around me: “eat that cupcake, you don’t need outside approval, who you are as a person is important,” yet every time I look down I grab my stomach rolls in disgust. I hate that I'm supposed to be recovered and be able to talk to other people about recovery when I can't look at myself with nothing but disgust.
I hate that I don’t understand how to love myself. I don’t know how to be happy about who I am. I want to look at myself beyond my not-so-flat stomach and thighs that seem closer than I am with my family. Why do I seek so much outside approval?
My body isn’t everything – in fact it isn’t anything. It is a vessel I use to achieve my goals. My love handles do not define me. And as acutely aware as I am of this fact I cannot help but cry when I look down from that hideous angle in the shower. The frustration I feel when getting ready to go out never fails to dampen my mood.
Knowing and feeling are completely unrelated emotions. I know I am more than my body and yet I feel as if a perfecting it is the answer to all of my problems. Rational thought, as prevalent as it may be in my head, cannot hold a candle to the prison of my self-hatred. It does not do much to my self-esteem when I am at a bar surrounded by men who do not give me a second look. It doesn’t do much to see “real” models in a magazine when I can barely button my jeans.
But I will slap on a smile, feed the words I myself cannot absorb to my fragile friends, and continue on in my path to bring light to the darkness of others. I have to smile and pretend like nothing is wrong. Because I'm recovered, I shouldn't have weeks where I am in the same place I claim to be getting away from.
I can only hope that maybe a time will come where I don't have these weeks any more. Maybe one day I will learn to accept myself.
Audrey it breaks my heart read your story right now. I wish I had a cure for you but before l can give you one I need one for myself. My problem that I'm dealing with isn't eating. I keep wondering if there any way I could change my past. Should I of got a way from my friends I had as a kid? Are maybe I should of moved away my family and stayed away. If I did would that of helped me keep my kids closer in my life? I don't know for I can't change the way I was years ago I just hope that I can rewrite the day's to come. As I read your story I feel it deep inside. I won't say that I know how you feel for I truly don't know how you feel. All I can say is that there are days that it feels like I'm in the same boat as you are we just in different cabins and different floors. If you ever are willing to talk please let me know and l will come meat up with ya are you can just give me a call. I'm always there for you.
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