One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass
Recovering from anorexia sucks. It can feel like thankless hard work from the minute you wake until the minute you fall asleep. You’ll probably cry, maybe you’ll scream, you’ll most likely curse under your breath, throw food across the room or even scream and curse and cry all at once as you fall to the floor of the kitchen in a heap. Oh, and you will definitely fart. A lot. But ask anyone who has embarked on the journey and they will tell you that recovery is worth every moment of bloated, gassy rage.
Although to date it is the single most terrifying and exhausting venture in my 23 years on this speck of dust we call home, I am wholly grateful for the amplitude of gifts my adventure into recovery from anorexia, depression and anxiety has bestowed upon me. Let there be no illusions, I am not ‘recovered’, and I may never be ‘recovered’ in the sense of the word that one might conjure up, all rainbows and smiles and chocolate cake. But I am proud to say that I am in recovery. I am recovering the lost pieces of self and learning to manage the disorder that made my life unbearable so it no longer has control over me.
Unfortunately, recovery from anorexia is not a straight trajectory, there is no cookie cutter recovery. Recovery can be a scary, lonely place. But there are some things that might make that path a little less terrifying to begin upon. Some of these things I recently discovered when I restarted my yoga practice. My main piece of recovery advice is get yourself weight restored, get medically cleared and get onto a yoga mat!
I had long been obsessing over the idea that to achieve the perfect recovery, I had to be ‘happy’. It became increasingly clear that the perfect recovery doesn’t exist and happiness is an elusive state of being that no one ever seems to achieve. And if not happiness, then what?! Panic?! Cry?! Both?! I began to realise as I moved around that piece of foam on the ground with my neighbours bottom wobbling dangerously close to my face that although the burning in the back of my thighs was uncomfortable, it wasn’t unbearable. And when we lay down to close the class in a guided meditation, I could feel the tightness of anxiety embracing my chest and discovered that it too, though uncomfortable, wasn’t unbearable.
I learned there on that mat that recovery isn’t about becoming happy and recovery isn’t about the absence of painful emotions. Recovery is about being able to feel it all and being ok with feeling it all. I learned that my emotions cannot have power over me unless I let them, and by attempting to numb them and starve them away, they had taken the power and ran.
So if recovery isn’t about being happy, what is it about? What does it look like? During a relapse last year I began the ask myself this very question and I resolved that my recovery is only mine and thus I am the only one who can define what it should be for me.
I see my recovery as a life long journey of constant re-evaluation, of recognising and managing the sneaky little voices of anorexia, depression and anxiety that weasel their way into my mind at times of stress, loneliness or vulnerability. Some people believe that total recovery is possible, which may very well sit with you. On the other hand I believe I’ll never be totally in the clear, but that by being in touch with myself, honest with myself and honest with the people around me, I will be able to manage my life without relying on self starvation to get me through.
To me recovery is not denying that anorexia has been a big part of my life and who I have become, but not dwelling on it either. My recovery is finding creative solutions and self determined and musical. My recovery is travel and coffee and wine and rediscovering Nutella eaten straight from the jar. It is pain and sadness and laughter and all of the people I am yet to meet and sharing stories over lunch with my dearest friends. My recovery is a place where I learn to ride the ups and downs without the downs consuming me for months on end. My recovery is not relying on alcohol to feel normal. My recovery is knowing when I need to ask for help and knowing that sometimes I need to take medication to lift the weight and darkness of the crushing depressions so that I may engage in therapy and get myself moving again.
My yoga practice is a space where I have learned how to take things at my pace, not the pace I think I should be taking things. Where I listen to my body and let it take it’s own time in reaching the next stepping stone. Likewise there is no time limit on my recovery, which doesn’t mean that I may become complacent, but which means I may allow my steps to be as small as they need to be to slow shuffle towards my bigger goals.
Recovery also involves slips and relapse and failures. Just this week I found myself too exhausted to leave bed for a day after several days of far too little food and far too much walking. In yoga it is important to attempt every pose with the intention of performing it fully and correctly, to reach for your toes with the intention of touching them, even if you know you’ll only meet your shins halfway. Every day must be lived the same, with the intention of moving towards recovery, reaching out towards it, stretching yourself just a bit further, a bit further, slowly, slowly, until one day something connects and you can look back on how far you have come. Having a slip up is not failure or a disaster, it’s an opportunity to learn that 5 hours of walking and a bowl of soup are not compatible. And so with the intention of moving towards recovery I spent a day napping and snacking and getting back on track.
Finally, ask for help and look for inspiration and information in every dark and dusty corner of the bookshelf, internet and music store. Your friends and family are a phone call away and there are some ripper therapists just waiting to shrink the shit out of you. You deserve to recover, whatever the hell that even means.
Bon appetite, recovery warriors!
Twitter – @katemeadley