how do you measure a year?

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First of all: Thank you, blog readers, for being silently supportive without knowing it. I've used this blog sometimes as a platform to talk about my ED and recovery efforts and body image struggles, and maybe sometimes it's boring to you, but it's been enormously helpful to publicly out myself and put it all out there.

I couldn't resist the Rent inspired title for today's post, because today is a momentous day. It marks a full year for me without any eating disorder behaviors at all, something I haven't done since I was 12 when my disorder really took off. And I'm pretty fuckin' proud.

I went into treatment at age 14 for the first time, and it was mostly just going through the motions. I was sorta sick of my ED, but really? I secretly loved it, the comfort it gave me, the way it calmed me down to obsess over calories and to run my hands over my jutting hip bones while I laid in bed at night. That's why it never really went away: I never really wanted it to.

It came back with a raging vengeance at age 20, and I was tired of it. Tired of being exhausted, of being isolated, of having no room in my life for fun or joy or confidence or friends. Just room for gripping, terrifying intense obsession. I chose to put myself into treatment, like an accountable adult, and that made all the difference. I made and kept every appointment, and although there were days when I hated it, when I wanted to punch my nutritionist for making me choke down so many snacks, I came to relish the feeling of being good to myself. Of being honest for once. Of forgiving myself. Of finally mourning my eating disorder, and letting it go as an active part of my identity. I used to be anorexic and bulimic, just like I used to have spiked hair and wear UFO pants and participate in mosh pits. But, finally, not anymore.

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There are times when I miss the feeling that my eating disorder filled a void or the false comfort that it gave, and there are still times that I stand in dressing rooms and cry when the size 2 pants won't fit because I have hips now and when I envy friends for their seemingly flawless bodies, and then I hate myself for being caught up in the superficial so intensely still. Not every day is perfect. But most of them rock: I see the amazing things my body can do when I nourish it and love it properly (yoga! bellydance! riding on top for long periods during awesome sex!), and the vibrant flush in my cheeks, and the healthy happy loving relationship I have with my boyfriend, and the support of my glorious friends, and all the space in my life for joy when there's not a draining mental illness crowding out the good stuff. Recovery might be a lifelong battle, but it doesn't feel like a fight anymore: it just feels like life. And that's the best gift I could ever give myself.

Much love,
The Sheriff