Why this?
But because
the clouds
are too light
to carry me
away...
(July 23, 2001)
My recovery from anorexia was a dark, ugly time, yet now I experience it as one of the most beautiful, radiant stretches of my life thus far.
It was an opportunity like no other to decide if I wanted to live or die. I teetered at the crossroads for a long time, permeable to the forces around me encouraging one path over another. I listened to the rhythm of my pulse, counted my heartbeats, and measured the likelihood of my survival against a chart that hung on the wall.
I was an angry patient, railing against a diagnosis I didn't believe in, but one that kept me imprisoned. My voice was a drifting whisper in the cacophony of sound. Why did perfect strangers have the right to overrule my decisions, tearing every last bit of my control away? What made these people who didn't live under my skin more powerful than I was?
The doctor who treated me during my first stay in the hospital had an office climbing with plants, giving the room a fresh, wet smell of dirt. I would inhale the damp cool deeply and feel grateful for this reminder of the earth outside. But, I didn't agree with what the doctor had to say and I hated him for his haughtiness.
One afternoon while passing him in the hallway, I voiced a growing panic that I might die if I didn't exercise. Literally. I pleaded for a quick walk on the treadmill. Maybe only 10 minutes? How about 5? Not enough to burn off the toast I'd choked down for breakfast, but enough to ease this suffocation. Please, please, I begged, until I was yelling. I don't remember his words, but I do remember the shake of his head and quick retreat.
At one point during my hospital treatment, a fellow patient said to me, "I've seen thinner." Looking back, I'm sure she was trying to ease my mind, but at the time I journaled: "When I get better I'm going to write a book or develop a lecture so that I can expound on WHAT NOT TO SAY to a person struggling with an eating disorder -- especially if that person is sitting in a fucking hospital trying to come to terms with his/her problem."
Skipping higher
where
heaven awaits,
Fertility
breathing.
(June 7, 2001)
As I've mentioned, having a baby was the only pin that pricked my heart during the worst of my eating disorder. It was the subject my doctor would bring up when I was most deadened. She'd ask: on a scale from 1 - 10, how motivated are you to get better? I'd hover between 6 - 10. Then: on that same scale, how willing are you to get better? 2 or a 3. I knew deep down that I needed to get better, but I was unwilling to do the work...until she mentioned having a baby, and then my numbers aligned.
It amazes me how seamlessly and rapidly I traveled between denial and clarity, and what triggered the trips between the two.
What I'm most proud of, having just read through my hospital writings more thoroughly than ever before, is the fact that I did the hard work. The box I've held onto for all these years is a reminder of everything I thought about when it was hard to think at all. There is so much about my recovery that I wouldn't remember had I thrown away the words that were so meaningless to me at the time but now tell a story that astounds me. There is a reason for knowing this story, and perhaps for telling it.
Late last summer, I stumbled upon this poem:
Honeybee ~
Having traveled miles
with unerring precision,
he alights on mica wings,
to feed upon the hearts
of riotously exclaiming flowers.
There is doubt among those closest to me that I've truly emerged from the other side of anorexia, especially in light of my bare admissions here. Though it seems too simple and perhaps a little careless to say, I wouldn't appreciate the honeybee if I was still stuck inside.
Without a doubt, I fought my recovery tooth and nail; but, ultimately I grew tired and began to let go, piece by piece. It was during the fight and ultimate surrender that I primed myself for the lessons that would surface from the shadowy depths of real living. Had I simply gone through the motions of recovery, keeping my heart and mind disengaged, I would still live by anorexia's rules today. Of this I am 100% certain.
I know that I am miles from the girl who earned straight A's in high school and who was dubbed "Best Personality" in her senior class. I know that in making the choices I thought were right for me I confused and ultimately disappointed my family. I wish anorexia had never become the solution that it was for so many years. I wish I could go back, grab the time lost, and shove it into my pocket for safe keeping.
But...I can't.
What I love most about Honeybee is the word mica. It means thin, tough, often transparent, and usually elastic, which I'd like to think is a result of miles and miles of travel. Then, not only does the honeybee alight, it feeds, and not just on what it needs to survive, but on the hearts of riotously exclaiming flowers.
I believe that we admire in others what we most admire in ourselves, and that as I travel the sometimes strange and winding passages ahead I'll seek out fellow honeybees.
For I know that along our winged and luminous journey together, unerringly precise or not, we'll find the sweetest nectar.
~ Katie
