In early June, I found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at a bowl full of rocks with the word “truth” written on each one. A group therapist gave the directive for everyone in the room to pass the bowl around, grab two rocks, and state two opposing things that are true at the same time; a lesson in dialectics, learning to literally and figuratively hold both.
I was in a residential treatment program for my eating disorder once again, and it was my first day back, at that. Thoughts flooded my mind as I thought of what to say:
I was angry at myself for falling back into this place after a period of solid recovery. I was angry at my body for what it had been through and that I could never be satisfied with how it looked. I was angry that those who loved me would not let me sit by and slowly destroy myself and my body into nothingness.
I fiddled with two rocks in my hands as I exhaled a sigh, muttering, “I believe recovery is possible AND I believe I missed my shot at it.”
You see, my depression was an all-encompassing stormcloud, partnered with the voice of my inner critic, an endless cycle of screams of all the ways I’m not good enough and how maybe it was finally the time when I could exit this existence without upsetting others. I simply could not imagine how people could see me as anything other than the disgusting failure I saw myself as. The person who had control over her body stolen from her far too young, who had been desperately trying and failing to gain some control since.
I heard the therapist, someone known and trusted for many years, respond with, “I think you and I both know there’s no such thing as missing your chance to recover. How about, ‘I believe recovery is possible AND I’m going to try?’” I brushed him off, determined to wallow in my frustration and despair.
His words planted a seed, however, and the idea stuck with me over the next several weeks as I progressed through treatment, constantly facing other scenarios where the difficulties of recovery and the choice to hold both came into place:
I can be unhappy with how my body looks AND I can give it the nourishment it needs.
I can be angry at my abusers AND I can refuse to take out the anger on myself.
I can be exhausted with my life AND I can keep living.
I can recognize the pain in this world AND have hope for brighter tomorrows.
My time in treatment continued on, and it got easier to navigate the dialectics of recovery and my life. I listened to the truths that others told me: that I am worthy and capable and deserving of more than the hardships I have experienced. The seed that had been planted weeks prior was slowly turning into a garden of self-respect, acceptance, and resiliency.
Recovery is still a day-to-day journey for me, one therapy and dietitian session at a time. It’s a learning process, but a process I know I’m not walking alone. While my depression and self-critical voice still pop their heads in, threatening me with the storm clouds, this time I can face them knowing that the darkness may come AND light will always overcome it.
Now, I can hold both.
You are more than a number on a scale or a measuring tape. You are human. Messy and whole, capable of so many good things, regardless of your body’s shape. We encourage you to use TWLOHA’s FIND HELP Tool to locate professional help and to read more stories like this one here. If you reside outside of the US, please browse our growing International Resources database. You can also text TWLOHA to 741741 to be connected for free, 24/7 to a trained Crisis Text Line counselor. If it’s encouragement or a listening ear that you need, email our team at [email protected].