There was something oddly upsetting about my positivity and spontaneity as I skipped through the conversations of the evening. It simultaneously scared me, made me feel like a fraud, and yet left me with an ease of satisfaction.
I don’t like the idea of recovery because it feels like something I am undeserving to have. I know myself to be nothing and therefore recovery, which is everything needed to become a whole individual, is not compatible with my make up. After, all I am nothing so how can nothing obtain everything.
I love the idea of recovery because the spiritual parts of me know it is a true and tangible goal. That I am deserving of recovery, that I owe it to myself and my past experiences to obtain it, that I am capable of helping others if I am to accept it. My spiritual center whispers to me in moments of peace and serenity that I am on my way to feeling human again.
I cooked today. It is something I am actually pretty good at, but would never admit. I am good at putting stuff together and creating random, delicious, and cohesive meals with all the necessary components. But when I cook, I am convinced I don’t have an eating disorder, that I have no problems with food, that I am just a fraud who spent years inside treatment centers for the attention and comfort that “being sick” brought me. Then, I accidentally put more butter in the dish than I intended and I panic and feel like crying, and as the imaginary tears are streaming down my pathetic face, I realize that the eating disorder is real and the extra half tablespoon of butter developed, in that moment, the difference between life and death.
Butter makes things taste better. I think butter can be added to almost anything and it taste better. I use butter all the time now. I used to never touch it.
Butter is the visual representation of everything I hate about food. Dense. Thick. Fat. Unpredictable and yet necessary. I don’t want to touch it or think about it let alone consume it.
Butter is a just like my mind. A slimy blend of solid and liquid that seeps into everything it comes in contact with.
It is midnight and I curl up into a ball on my big fluffy bed. I feel like I am six years old as I am unsure about whether it is safe to close my eyes. I want my mom to sing me to sleep and promise me that the butter won’t come and visit me in my dreams tonight.
I zoom out and look at myself. The pathetic little ball in her big bed, clutching a pile of stuffed animals. The mess of melted butter, drying on the black kitchen counter-tops. A ball of fears and uncertainties, of regrets and irrationality. I zoom out more and more until I am just a speck and the butter is microscopic. That is reality.
The universe is so big and I am so small…
…I think I am going to sleep….
…For once I am going to close my eyes…
…But I can’t.