When You Can't Walk, Crawl.
On recovery, relapse, and reaching out.
CW: Disordered eating, relapse, body dysmorphia.
I haven’t been to the gym in 4 weeks. First for a knee injury, and now, because I am exhausted and depleted.
I can rep the weight of three grown men on the leg press and yet, I somehow hurt my knee simply walking down the street. So incredibly frustrating. When I realized I couldn’t put weight on my knee my heart dropped. Anxiety immediately welled up in my belly, and the volume in my head shot up to max volume.
If you’ve been around for a while you may know that I’ve been in recovery from decades of restrictive, disordered eating since the fall of 2020. It has been grueling, grief-filled, lonely, and life-saving. 10 months ago, I got to a place in my recovery where I was able to add movement back into my routine and I very quickly found relief in a consistent weightlifting regimen. The workouts silenced my racing thoughts and put me back into my body in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. I leaped forward in my recovery because to get through the workouts, I had to eat. Suddenly I didn’t feel like I was force-feeding myself to eat three meals a day. On the contrary, I was HUNGRY. Not only was I hungry enough for all my meals, but the often attempted, rarely accomplished snack that my dietitian never fails to encourage became a celebrated achievement at least twice a week. I set goals like improved mental health, increased strength, better stamina, and improved flexibility and saw improvements across the board almost immediately. After two years of fighting tooth and nail to maintain my recovery, I finally felt like I was closer than ever to enjoying the fruits of my efforts.
It’s often said that one of the reasons it feels like everything else also falls apart when you go into recovery is because recovering asks us to resist the urge to indulge in the seductive advances of our eating disorder and abandon our most comforting coping mechanisms. Maladaptive as it may be, restricting my food intake was the devil I knew for more than half of my life and it provided me with a false, but intoxicating sense of control in moments that I had no control of anything at all.
Despite the healthy coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the last three years, it took less than a day with an injured knee for the siren song of food restriction, health anxiety, and body dysmorphia to reach my ears.
I skipped two meals on day one.
I went to a restaurant for dinner on day two hoping that eating in public would add an aspect of accountability to get a meal down but I left in tears, my meal unfinished, and ugly cried in my car.
By day three I couldn’t look in the mirror.
On day four not even a day trip to Knoxville with friends was enough incentive to distract from the screaming in my brain. I declined shaved ice and said no to coffee. I skipped breakfast, I skipped dinner, and I was forced to shakily come to terms with the direction I was heading.
Day five was saved by routine. Every couple of weeks, some friends and I get together at one of our homes to make a meal together. Declining to eat, especially when hosting, would be noticed. Distracted by food prep and house cleaning, my anxiety took a back seat for the afternoon and my hunger seared through my belly with disturbing familiarity. Rather than meeting myself with compassion, and perhaps a fucking snack, I succumbed to the provocative feeling of perceived self-control followed quickly by a feeling of deep shame and then fear. Shame, because I knew better. Fear, because this time knowing better wasn’t enough to stop me.
Week two mirrored week one, then week three arrived. I was getting dressed and put on a pair of underwear that I’d ordered not three weeks prior. Why are these are too big? Shit. What am I doing? What have I done? I panicked, skipped lunch, and spent the rest of the day going round for round with shame.
If there is one thing I’ll do, it’s call myself out on my bullshit. Sometimes it takes me a little while, but even I cannot escape my unwavering, neurodivergent sense of right and wrong. IYKYK. As I sat with myself reeling, I stumbled forward in an act of vulnerability and reached out to a friend.
“I’m really worried I’m at the start of relapse… it’s never happened before.”
WHEW. The cat was out of the bag.
I was instantly met with compassion that was like salve on the scraped little knees of my heart. They didn’t think less of me, they weren’t mad. On the contrary, they celebrated my self-awareness and tended to my big, confusing feelings even though they didn’t have to. Thank you, Chris! There was no shame, but also no panic. Their absence of panic quelled my own. Panic turned to grief as I realized how quickly this person was able to access compassion for me and, yet again, despite all my work, I’d been so swift to withhold it from myself.
The next moment I woke teary-eyed but ready to try. I pulled from all the times I’d shared happy moments at meals with loved ones over the last three years and although I would have given ANYTHING that morning not to eat breakfast alone, I turned on the stove and, in my first act of defiance against my eating disorder in weeks, prepared a meal.
Eggs - cheesy and soft scrambled. It takes a little longer to cook them this way but the result is so worth it. The effort felt symbolic as I recommitted myself to indulging in recovery rather than restriction.
Toast - once a fear food, every time I eat bread it’s an act of rebellion and compassion.
Strawberry Jam - handmade by my parents with love. A reminder that no matter how much my eating disorder tries to convince me that I’m not worthy, the love of my loved ones screams louder and longer.
After years of isolation by choice, I found myself healed enough to seek out community. I’ve spent the last year specifically seeking out and learning how to participate in community with others. As much as the wounded version of me would like to take all the credit for my growth and healing, the healing version of me knows I would not be where or who I am without the efforts and care of the tremendous humans I am surrounded by.
The lesson I’m learning this season is that isolation indisputably fuels the lies my eating disorder tries to tell me. Community is essential for my healing. I wish that relapse hadn’t come knocking, but I am tremendously proud of myself for reaching out instead of turning inward. My loved ones met me with open arms, but I had to take the first step.
I’m still not that hungry, But I’m hungry to live so I’ll show up. I’ll show up for lunch with my family today. I’ll show up later for dinner, and tomorrow for breakfast. For the rest of my life, three times a day, I’ll work as hard as I can to show up to the table.
Also, I just got cleared to work out again this past Friday. Thank goodness. Getting moving again will boost my appetite too, making the battle a little less uphill.
When people have asked me how I’ve gotten through various experiences in my life, I always have the same answer. One step. All it takes is one step forward. It doesn’t matter if you take a week-long break before your next step. It doesn’t even matter if you get knocked back ten steps after that. If commit to one step, the universe will show up for you in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. When you can’t walk, just crawl. Forward is forward is forward is forward. I don’t care if you roll. Do you hear me?
This platform will not be all about recovery, but it will often include my life, lessons, and stories. Right now, I am recovering and all I ever want to do is show up as I am. I’m imperfect but I’m always trying. I’m seeking community and participating in community care. I love to listen and I’m hoping to give back through relatable storytelling.
Thank you for making it to the end of this story, but know that this is a beginning as well. I hope you’ll stick around and be a part of my community. I love you.
happy to read these words and join this community! thanks for sharing