I've spent the last day or two feeling sorry for myself. Why? Because being "normal" is still so incredibly hard, a tremendous consumption of time and energy that leaves me feeling exhausted at the end of the day.

I was getting my lunch in the cafeteria at work yesterday, and I was in tears. All of the menu options had the calories and fat grams printed on the signs- right under the names. It was pretty hard not to see it. Ed wasn't keen about most of those choices. Too many calories, too much fat, too much sodium. Too much, too much, too much.

I was wandering around in tears, my pride at having challenged myself to eat at a completely unknown place dashed. I saw my boss, who made some comment, I don't remember what, and I pulled myself together because I didn't want him to see his new hire crying over lack of lunch choices.

I did find something to eat, and yes, it was appropriate (ie, not plain lettuce). But still.

I hear Ed telling me to use the worksite gym at lunch instead of eating. And I say, "Shut up, Ed. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup."

All of this inner dialogue takes time and energy. Time and energy when I should be focusing on my new job, or my new surroundings, or trying to make new friends. And instead I'm crying about lunch.

I know I need more therapy to deal with this anger, sadness, and downright bitterness, not just of being sick for so long. But also about recovery, about the awful unfairness of it all. About how much I would like credit from people for getting out of bed and eating breakfast.

Writes Hortence in Jezebel:

It took a very long time, but once I went into recovery, I never looked back. When you lose that part of yourself, you begin to remember who you were before you were just bones and numbers and calories. You start to see things differently, to appreciate small, quiet things that your ED never let you notice before. You eat a fucking Snickers bar for breakfast and you feel like Michael Phelps should mail you a gold medal, because you are such a champion.

And I thought: yes. That's it! That's why I'm pissed. Because it takes most of my energy sometimes to just get up and eat and not have a total meltdown when the bus is five minutes late and you think crap I'm going to be late, I just started work, they're gonna think I'm lazy, they're gonna fire me, my apartment is expensive, crap crappity crap! And then I have to go to work and write my stuff, which is downright simple after figuring out what to eat and how much and when, for Christ's sake.

I try to remind myself that, dammit, life isn't fair. That I got a crappy genetic luck of the draw and live in a freaky diet culture and here I am and here we all are. That yes, I have it easier in some ways. I'm not rich, but I'm not destitute. I have a (mostly) loving family. I have the ability to seek treatment, and the support to keep in recovery.

Then I have to remind myself that, dammit, it doesn't make any of the rest easier.

I would like a break. I would like to remember what normal is, to experience it just for a moment. But instead, I wait and I hope.