Well, I’m six days out of treatment, and the real world is hitting me hard.
I mean, I’m not using behaviors or anything, but the head chatter has gotten exponentially louder. Dissatisfaction is setting in hard. I’m back from my refuge from the fashion models, the commercials, the legs in Target jeans ads that are basically thinspo. I’m back in the world where my head whispers, “you could do something about it. You could fix it.” My head entices me to do my eating disorder “just a little,” to overexercise just a bit to slim down those “unseemly” parts of me. “It wouldn’t take much work,” Ana wheedles. “It wouldn’t take very long. You’d be done with me soon. And then you’d be happy.”
Happy, my ultimate confusion. Happy in my world means good enough. And my default for good enough comes in the form of perfectionism. Perfect grades, perfect volunteering, perfect body. And that last one is perhaps the most dangerous. Because that is the one that could kill me.
Granted, I did go clothes shopping today, so it makes sense that my body image critic would be more vocal today, having had more opportunity to speak up. Oh mirrors. How I hate them.
I don’t know. Already things are harder than I thought they would be. Already I can feel myself leaning in to the whispers, listening even as I am disagreeing with them. But at least I am still disagreeing with them.
I just worry that one day, I’m going to stop.