Average

I remember when the family therapist at the first treatment center I went to told me the average amount of times someone with an eating disorder goes to treatment. I don’t remember what that number was, but I know it wasn’t one or two or probably even three. I remember my family telling me that I wasn’t average. The real or imagined expectation was created that this time- my first time in treatment- would certainly be my last.

But the thing is, I am average.

Really, we all are. We are just average humans, trying to figure out this thing called life.
There are certain qualities and traits that make each of us exceptional, but certainly not the exception to the rule that life will continue to happen.

I’m in treatment again.

I swore I wouldn’t ever seek a higher level of care other than outpatient after my last treatment center experience. It was traumatic and unhelpful, and the little bit of foundation I was able to build there quickly crumbled after marital problems popped up. You see, being married to someone with mental illness is not for the faint of heart or lacking in courage. All it took was a few weeks of miscommunication, that turned into no communication, that turned into two people trying to take care of each other without actually asking the other what they needed. Thankfully, we dug ourselves through and out of that hole, but we couldn’t leave the eating disorder behind. Mental illness is never a choice.

I put bandaids on my wounds after that round of treatment: the crippling anxiety, the deep depression, the PTSD. The thing about bandaids though, is they don’t stick very long and they most certainly aren’t a long term solution. Even when you desperately want them to be, as you press your hands against the bleeding that seeps out from underneath, trying to make it stop. Eventually, it gets out of control.

I pretended to be ok when I was not because I did not believe I would ever be ok.

I still am not sure I will, honestly.

I am more hopeless than hopeful, and fearful that this life with anorexia and all that comes with it- is all there is for me. I would say I want my life back, but the truth is, I don’t remember a life without an eating disorder. I remember fake hope and telling everyone I am fine and convincing myself that I am. And until I was sitting on the floor of my therapist’s office crying and saying over and over again through my tears “I’m not OK,” I did not truly realize the bandaids weren’t sticking. I realized I had to do things differently and I needed more help to do that. So I am getting it.

I’m in treatment again. It’s the fifth time. I hope to God it’s the last, because I am not sure I can reconcile that this is the cycle of my life. I probably sound like a broken mess right now, but I want to make this clear: it is OK not to be OK. And it is OK to be average. What is not OK is giving up, and that’s why I am here in treatment. Because being alive in my life as it was twelve days ago was straight up suffering. The weight loss? The physical symptoms? Those were side effects of the constant suffering with suicidal ideation, unrelenting depression and anxiety. Our outsides don’t always match our inside, but I’m learning to accept that we absolutely have to acknowledge what’s inside. Secrets- they will keep me sick- and I want a life. I want more than life, I want a life in color.