2AM: Facing My Reflection
One might characterize my behavior as “an impending disaster.” They wouldn’t be wrong. But how did I get there?
Topic: recovery
One might characterize my behavior as “an impending disaster.” They wouldn’t be wrong. But how did I get there?
To read the stories of people, to quietly be involved in their struggles and their victories reminds me that it’s OK to be human, in all its flaws and all its glory.
I wish our doubts and fears made sense. I wish they would listen to the logic shown in the love of our friends and family. I wish they could be laid to rest with the simple knowledge that there is someone out there who cares.
Why couldn’t I just drink normally? Why couldn’t I stop after one glass, one beer—or even two? Heck, why couldn’t I go a whole Monday without pouring myself, four to six glasses before my lunch even arrived at the restaurant?
We have all felt pain, even if we pretend we haven’t. I think this somehow brings us together. I think this might be called love.
Getting sober is incredibly hard. Staying sober feels impossible most days. Trying to get sober again after a relapse is like trying to punch a volcano into submission.
It took me a long time to embrace the ugly side of self-care. I’m a perfectionist at heart, so whenever I’m not at my best, I consider it a failure.
Demi Lovato is only human. It feels important to start with that. It’s a simple fact, indisputable, but it’s one that can be easily overlooked.
The truth is that I ignored warning signs that my eating disorder was back. The truth is that my grades were suffering and I was isolating myself. The truth is that I didn’t have an answer when my therapist asked me to name something I thought I was good at outside of my eating disorder. The truth is that I’m struggling.
These walls can, should, and will come down. We will build tomorrow together.
It wasn’t my job to educate the locals about mental health or de-stigmatize an entire country. And if it ever got to be too much, I could always go home. Simple enough. Easy.
Not long ago, a question bubbled to the surface of my brain: if my body could speak, would she forgive me?
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