On to Question #3...

Eating Alone asked, "You say you're 'recovered', how do you know? And how long did it take?"

This question is similar to Question #1 from Miss Keira, so if you'd like some more elaboration, look here, however, I do have some more words and will certainly respond to the last question regarding length of time.

First, how do I know I'm 'recovered'?

-Because my life doesn't revolve around food, exercise, feelings of hunger, my own image in the mirror, the way my clothes fit, what people say to me regarding appearance or success/failure.

-Because I actually have a life.

-Because when I wake up in the morning I am content, not filled with despair.

-Because I don't have to work at it. It is now natural.

-Because I can help others without being triggered by them.

-Because this blog is not a bunch of hypocritical paragraphs that I say but seldom do. I live by what I write here.

-Because I like my body.

-Because I even, most of the time, LOVE my body.

-Because I am at peace with issues of my adolescence.

-Because I can eat "junk food" and not care.

-Because I don't binge or purge or starve myself.

-Because I don't even WANT to binge, purge, or starve myself.

-Because I don't care what the number on a scale says and it used to incredibly define me.

-Because I am a healthy weight.

-Because appreciate myself instead of hate myself.

-Because I feel free.

And these are just to name a few of the reasons I know I'm "recovered." Out of the woods. Healthy. Happy. Here in the moment and not afraid to eat, look, live, love.

And how long did it take?

If you start counting from my first onset of disordered eating and self-hatred (in the sixth grade) but BEFORE I was diagnosed with full-blown anorexia, then it's taken about 10 or 11 years to reach "recovered" status... and 13 or 14 years (total) to reach the "recovered" me I am today (which began about 3 years ago, if you see what I'm saying).

My official descent into a rampant eating disorder began when I had just turned 18, but from the get-go I wanted recovery and started almost immediately. It was not easy.

The length of time isn't what's important. It can take 3 years or 30 years. The goal is to get to the point where you can say, "I'm free" and mean it. Don't give yourself a deadline. Don't beat yourself up for slip-ups. Just. keep. trying.

To add a question to the list I'm answering from, just comment in my original post, here.

Thought of the Day

You can be your own worst enemy. It's time to be your greatest ally.

Going Through the Motions

The longer you "go through the motions," the easier recovery becomes. Soon you do it more naturally and you discover things that are unknown to you right now. You learn about yourself. You will get where you want to be, but it takes time and effort.

You are probably giving a tremendous amount of effort right now. And you're probably thinking, "When will something give a little?" or "When will I actually be free of this?" Keep reminding yourself that the best is yet to come. You can do this. It will get easier.

Setbacks are going to occur. Don't let them stop you in your tracks.

No one can tell you what you are feeling and experiencing. Don't let anyone define it for you. And it really makes no difference what you call it--a relapse, a slip-up, depression...whatever it is, it is real and you can change it if you want to or live it if you don't. (And who wants to live it?) The only word that matters is Recovery. If you feel you are going through recovery, good. If you don't think you are but want to, then do something to change it. If you think you have a recovery mindset but lack the drive or the will to care 100% of the time, you can change that too.

Change one thing and you end up changing a lot.

Recovery doesn't mean you are doing well 100% of the time. It just means that you WANT to be.

No matter how many cons there are to your dilemma, one big pro outweighs them all: you getting better, you feeling better, you learning to live life again.

You don't have to define what you are going through with a word (relapse, recovery, slip-up, setback, etc.). You just have to know where you want to go.

Discovering "Recovery Thinking"

You can be honest about struggling. Because struggling means you are fighting something...that you're not just sitting there and taking it...or giving in. And THAT is really saying something.

I think a lot about how so many women fear the number on the scale that sometimes seems to be creeping up on them.

I really understand what that is like; I used to feel that same fear of the weight and the number on the scale. It made me crazy.

Recovery can often seem like a battle of your two selves. A seemingly endless ping-pong game.

It comes down to this. You see the number. You wince. You try to tell yourself it's okay because you're trying to be healthy. But it doesn't feel okay. And you don't feel good about it.

You think about restricting.

You know you shouldn't. (Am I right so far?)

And you try to get support from others to keep your saner thoughts in the forefront of your mind.

The thing is, if you give in to restricting to lose OR maintain (your body may, as it changes, find its normal weight is a couple pounds higher than what you've been maintaining, hence the slow creep of the number on that scale) you are going to be back on a downward spiral. So keep that in mind.

It's so easy to say you will only restrict enough to get back to what you feel is a comfortable weight, but that's the eating disorder wheedling its way back into your head and slowly clutching you again until you continue and continue and continue, a lower weight always being desirable.

You know this. It's so simple to say right now that you'd only restrict a little bit, but it's a dangerous move. A recipe for disaster.

I know from experience.

Once, when I tried to recover and got to a "decent" (though still too low) weight, I began to freak out even though I was still determined on recovery, and I told myself I'd only restrict to get a tiny bit lower, just so I'd feel better in my own skin. So I did.

Bad move. I was down to below xx lbs. in no time at all. And I REALLY wanted to get better. But there I was. Back at Unhealthy and trying to climb my way up to Healthy again.

I don't want this to happen to you or anyone. I know the mindset an eating disorder can instill, and I want you to know that you are stronger than your inclination to restrict when you see your weight on a scale.

As I've said before, a scale is an inanimate object that should never define you. I know it takes a while to realize this completely but nevertheless, it is something you can tell yourself over and over again when you feel miserable because the number you've seen isn't the one you'd like to be seeing.

And eventually, the more resistant you become against restriction and other eating disordered behavior, the less that number you see begins to bother you. It goes like this. You see it. You don't like it. But you don't feel the desire to restrict.

Days go by.

You see it. You don't like it. But you pass it off in a couple seconds and forget about it for the rest of the day.

Days go by. You see it. You are indifferent. You neither like it nor dislike it.

Days go by.

You see it. You are indifferent. You may not even feel like stepping on a scale is important in your life.

Days go by.

You see it. You are indifferent. You feel good. GOOD. Because a number doesn't dictate your mood.

Days go by.

You see it. You like it. Why? Because it means you are free at last from the power of the scale and the number.

It could take months, years, maybe a decade, but it can happen. Remember that when you step on the scale and try not to let it ruin your smile or your day…because the day you stop letting a number ruin your day, you are one big step closer to peace.

Remembering the Realization

This blog has a point and a purpose. Not only that, it has a message. I have a goal. It's here to give people hope. My goal is to be an example—to cause people to say, "If that's what recovery looks like, sign me up!"

That's it, plain and simple. From the beginning—from the start of my descent into an eating disordered life—I've always known I wanted to stop. I didn't want to have an eating disorder any more than one wants to have any other disease. I knew it was unhealthy and I knew I needed help. Before I told anyone about my struggles, before I was confronted, and before I had even come to terms with my issues, I went to see a counselor. I remember making the appointment; it all seemed so surreal.

I was your average girl who watched TV and saw anorexic girls on talk shows, skin and bones, crying their eyes out in front of the camera. I never thought I would relate to the girls on those couches, talking about their fears of food and their distressing disease. But suddenly, almost before I knew what was happening, I was on my way to anorexia myself…and it wasn't long before I was diagnosed with the very same disorder I had often heard about on television.

At my consultation appointment at my college campus's counseling center, I recall explaining my daily habits, my calorie counting obsession, and my way of fasting for days. I could hear myself saying the words, knowing full well I had a serious problem or at least the beginnings of one. From that point, even though I sought help, was confronted by my best friend, and told my parents, I ended up getting worse before I got better. Sometimes I even got better only to get worse again.

Things weren't clicking in my head. The constant struggle became so normal to me and so strangely comforting. I used anorexia to cope with stress, to deal with change, to help me feel special. All the while, I still hated it. I'd get angry every time I went to see a doctor who told me I should be weighing about xxx pounds. Not only did the very thought seem ridiculous to me, it also agitated me—because I always wondered how I'd look at a higher weight, always somehow knew deep down that a grown woman should be weighing much more than I did…and well, should look more like a woman.

Even when I got better and better and I managed to eat enough to be considered "okay," I was still constantly struggling with mental aspects of anorexia. Sometimes I was even annoyed because I thought everyone around me assumed I was fine again simply because I weighed xxx pounds. It was so untrue and so hard to explain. At times, I was the furthest thing from fine.

I have always been one of those people who can put on a happy face—who can smile even when they are hurting and joke around, consistently concealing the emotions at battle inside. In a way, it sometimes helped not to talk about it. I liked trying to forget, be able to have a good time with friends, if only for a few fleeting hours.

It was sad, because something always seemed to fall. I always seemed to fall. I wanted to enjoy myself, to be happy with my friends, to let my mind free itself of numbers and perfection, but I could never enjoy myself completely.

It was like I was at a party, having a blast with a big smile on my face, but there was someone in the corner, wearing dark clothes and looking at me with a scary expression. My eating disorder, my inside pain and dissatisfaction, was that dark, scary someone in the corner. I could still have a great time, could still make great memories, but I was always being watched by something that wanted to take it all away.

When I think of times like this, I am reminded particularly of a few nights out with my college friends when we'd drink and have a good time dancing and laughing…and on the way home, when the alcohol had loosened the strings around my turbulent emotions, I'd start to cry relentlessly. It's kind of embarrassing even now, but I was much more of a mess than I let myself or anyone else believe. Tears typically accompany a mess.

Whether I cried walking home from a bar—feeling as though I was completely ruining the carefree mood—or later in the night back at my old apartment to my best friend, everything seemed to come crashing down after having fun. It took me a while to learn that I'd never really be able to be happy again unless I fixed myself first. Until I took care of what was making me hurt, any fun or happiness was temporary.

I knew I didn't want to live like that. After all, who does?

Looking back, nights like that feel like a turning point, or several of them. I knew my entire life was going to be like that if I didn't change something. If I hadn't had the friends I do, I would have fallen into a sad little hole and lied there 'til something drastic finally pulled me out…if anything pulled me out at all.

This realization came after years of unhappiness and what can only be described as shit. This realization came after a freshman year of college that makes me cringe to this day. After days and nights of worrying my friends, of sleeping in the daytime for hours at a time, of letting my past of a being a straight A student fall into the trash as I used all my effort to even make it to—and through—classes. After tedious meals in the dining hall, whole Biology classes spent incessantly tallying my food intake, and one distinctly frightening night when I attempted to measure my dwindling waist by fastening a belt around it—then trying to measure the belt with a ruler—only to be stopped by my freshman room mate and my best friend, who both had to hold me down on my bed while I thrashed around and essentially freaked out. After counseling and eating again only to make my sophomore year a near repeat of my freshman year. After group therapy and fainting spells. After screaming matches with my parents. After actually seeing the number 89 on the scale at one point and hating the sick euphoria that attended it. After obsessive term papers on eating disorders in an attempt to teach myself to stop what I was doing.

After all this came those fun college nights that ended in tears.

And after that came the realization.

That. I. Didn't. And. Couldn't. Do. It. Anymore.

So I set out to learn myself and discovered a lot. It has to start with you.

It has to start with YOU.

But most of all, it has to start.