Not Without Struggle Or Hope

Nearly a year ago I proclaimed this would indeed be my longest year yet, but as luck would have it, as I reflect back on this last year I sit and ponder where it actually went, and how I came full circle to another Christmas so quickly. Christmas is what you could say a bit of a landmark for me. As each one passes I can't help but wonder if I'll be around for the next. I mull over the years events, and tell myself I'll do better next year. But like I said a year ago, time changes me. Just when I think I've been standing still, I get a flash back to where I once was and where I never want to be again. The other day I was told that I need to find a balance in life, "just find the balance" he said. I silently had a good laugh to myself, if this person knew me two years ago, or even just over a year ago, the balance I have restored in my life is something to be proud of I think. Of course, I have a lot of work to do and I'd say that a lot of people have found more balance than I, but I also have a lot more compassion and heart than others do. So how's that for balance. 

So, in the end, this year was not my longest year yet and I made it to yet another Christmas. Not without fault or struggle though. Indeed not without a few smiles and hope either. It concerns me slightly that I am better yet worse all at once. Little did I know when I was the hand that ED sought, as I lost weight I would become fatter and fatter in my own dark subconscious. I've become more social yet have hid so much more. I smile more and eat less, talk more and share less, restrict more and purge less. Perhaps I still have to work on this equilibrium of mine. As I try to live a more normal life, I come back to the insanity that is the mind of the eating disordered. I want to use the words "I can't recover", although I have been told that is untrue. I have a million words floating through my brain and have ceased the purging of them. I recall the overwhelming love I received when I first exposed my blog to many who knew me when I thought all I would get was hate. And now it's hard for me to even read the words that I once wrote months ago, nearly two years ago. Who could give me love after writing such personal in-depth things about myself. But what kind of love would it be if they didn't know. Putting my thoughts on a page is the only way for me to not think what I think. To not be haunted and tainted by what is clearly not real. Exposing myself was the only way I couldn't engage in what I find so comforting, so falsely lovable. So secure. Now as I fall darkly silent I gaze in the mirror crushing on my hipbones, waking up and sliding my hands against my ribcage in hopes that it is more prominent. Leaning against a chair I feel only my shoulder blades touching the cold plastic. I plead with ED for him to coerce my non existent collarbones to make an appearance some day, for my thighs to gravitate farther and farther apart, to make me nothing, to make me disappear entirely.