I used to think recovery would be like a suicide.
The death of the thing one used to be. Shedding oneself layer by layer.
- Skin, flesh, nerves, bones - until there is nothing but a bland seed left. Replanting that seed.
Watering, waiting.
Waiting for the new you. Hoping.

It is strange to think of how long I've been sick. How long I’ve been making myself sick.
As a teenager you sympathize with yourself. You put the blame on society and circumstance. You
blame your parents for terrorizing your sensitive spirit. You know you are slowly getting sicker and
more obsessed, but you can’t let go. Not yet.
You have energy enough to run another 10 kilometers. To brush the blood off you knuckles.
You eat food from the garbage bin and you steal from strangers. Starving.
Leaving any sense of pride and moral on your pillow.

For me it started very early. At 10 years old I stuck my fingers down my throat.
At 14 I cried myself to sleep because I had eaten half an apple.
18 and I couldn’t pay my rent because I had spent all my money on binge food.
I was in trouble.
I felt like a garbage human, living a garbage life.

girl, cigarette, and window image

I was so busy with my disorder that I had forgotten about the passing of time. I forgot about getting
older, about building a foundation for myself.
I eventually got tangled into therapy, however it only gave me someone to talk to.

The disorder slowly fused in with my life and I just accepted the idea that this was me.
I read somewhere that some people never fully recover from eating disorders and I said to myself
“yes. That is me.”
For a while I thought I had it under control. That I had learned to live with it and that I was living a
normal life. I was a young woman with some bad habits.
None of it was normal. The hiding, the obsession, the self harm.
Not going out, not archiving my goals because I was busy eating and purging.
Not normal.

Then “suddenly” I find myself at 25 with rotting teeth, thin hair and chronic gastritis. 10 kilometer
runs are down to 4 kilometers. Planning my days around my waist size. Gaining weight then hiding
until it’s starved off. “Sorry, I cannot meet you today, I feel a bit sick (fat)"
There are few friends around, and the ones I have are hanging by a thread.

Living my nightmare.
Not have I accomplished besides staying alive. All my time has been wasted.
I'm not a teenager anymore, but a young woman still running after what is not mine to have. Living
in the shadows. Being a shadow. Or less.
People I used to know are getting married, finishing university degrees, having babies. Gaining
weight yet posting photos of themselves because their lives did not stop.

blue, grunge, and lonely image

To hell with this. I feel pathetic.
25 and still chasing a body to make my mothers friends proud.
Screw this. And them, for wrecking my childhood.

It takes a lot of effort to remember who I used to be before I wanted to be anything but that.
I was curious and in love with many things.
A girl that loved to write, trees and tea with sugar.

She was buried alive, but she did not die.

25 years old and 15 years with an eating disorder is enough to make anyone tired.
And dear God am I tired. I can barely keep a job, yet alone hold an entire life together.
So tired but with just enough strength left to recover.
It’s about time. I’ve missed out on so much.
I’ll have to run after my dreams a bit faster now. It’s okay though. I’m an experienced runner.

Recovery is possible. I am on the journey again and I am convinced this time.

flowers, sad, and vintage image

No one is unrecoverable. But the truth is you will stay sick forever if you don’t make a
decision.

Make it now. Don’t wait until you are 25, 30 or 40. Don’t miss out on any more life.
Your body will not keep up, nor will your mind. Nor the people around you.
I refuse to sugarcoat it. It is a garbage disorder that doesn't go away.

Recovery is not suicide.
Rather, it is getting rid of everything you don’t want around anymore. Killing habits, and thoughts.
It is hard to let go of the idea of a body you think you need to have. However, a life with the
disorder is much harder. To look back with regret is harder.

Recovery is saving the person you buried alive