Missing the bad times must make me crazy
Lately i've been thinking quite a lot about the passing of time. I wrote a blog post on the positive effects of time, but what about the negative effects? Every so often, they creep into my mind. I try to push them away, but they keep coming back like ferociously growing weeds whilst I run around with Weedol.
I got the strangest feeling today. I've talked before about my fear and reluctancy to recover from my illness, but this was different. On the back of losing 0.8 Kg at my last weigh-in and trailing off my meal plan, I wondered whether it would be so bad to be low weight again. I know deep down it would be terrible. It certainly wasn't any fun being at risk of organ failure and/or death. So why did the thought even enter my mind?
I suppose it's because recovery is tough. The torture of facing your fears one by one. Sharing the inner workings of your brain in therapy and enduring the side effects of scientifically neglected medication that feels like it's poisoning your body for the first few months. Not to mention the strain on relationships with family and friends, and the strength you need to muster up each and every morning just to get out of bad. When does it all end? Wouldn't it just be easier if I gave up and laid on the sofa under a rug watching The Lion King?
I wrote a song once which featured the line "she wants to be the tragic heroine". That line was about me. Believe it or not, its a much easier role to play in life than that of the happy young woman with the world at her feet. Much easier to believe that misfortune is your destiny.
When I am better, I fear the moment when my invisible fight is forgotten. Washed away forever, like an entire decade never happened. I may always carry the scars, but no one will see them.
Maybe I lack love and respect for myself. In many ways, I sense that may end up being the final piece of the puzzle. Having an illness might encourage some people to care or look after you a little bit more than they would have otherwise, but if your only hope for friendship and love is for people to take pity on you, then you've gone wrong somewhere.
As my warped feelings of nostalgia come and go, I am trying to make peace with the fact that I am not as ill as I once was. It's not my identity, it isn't my future and one day I will live without it. I often wonder how something you dreamed of disappearing every day for half of your life could fill you with such a deep loss at the thought of it finally leaving you. I don't really know anyone fully recovered, so I guess i'll have to find this one out for myself. I told myself I would get here, and so I can't give up now.
Life is so much better anyway on this side of the 'chronic illness line'. I had a sausage roll today FFS, it doesn't get much better than that.