It's something I've been noticing lately in my own life: a growing mastery of basic recovery skills. You know, the things other 31-year-olds take for granted, like the regular consumption of breakfast and not exercising myself half to death. In the beginning of recovery, I couldn't do any of these things unless someone was sitting right there and giving me death eyes to make sure I wasn't misbehaving. Preferably with an Ensure for any infractions.
There's nothing to deflate your ego quite like flipping through your friends' wedding and baby pictures on Facebook while realizing that you one even trusts you to, like, you know, eat.
When I first attempted to eat with no real supervision after attempting recovery, it was kind of laughable. I'd start off getting a small, nonfat cappuccino (more air, less milk!) and say I had some massive, calorie-laden drink. Then I'd switch to coffee or tea while simultaneously maintaining I had that beverage. After all, I wanted that drink. I even might have actually intended to order it, on some subconscious level. But faced with the gargantuan menu and the knowledge that there were calorie-free options just waiting for me, I caved to the anxiety. Then, ashamed that I couldn't do something as simple as order a simple snack, especially after promising on my kitty's tail that I would Behave Myself and Actively Choose Recovery, I lied about it. I justified this by telling myself that I wouldn't cheat again, that next time, I would have the massive calorie-laden drink.
Repeat ad nauseum.
All during this time, I would have sworn up and down that I could easily handle everything on my own. Easily. "I've got this," I said. After all, I could publish long feature stories in magazines. Surely I could eat adequately.
Except I couldn't. Each time I tried, I would bite off more than I could chew (is that pun intended? I'm not sure...). Sometimes, I would be forced to be ready because the insurance company said I was ready, dammit. Others, my treatment team thought I was ready. And still others, I convinced my treatment team I was ready to take on more responsibility for my own recovery. Each time, the result was the same: it was too much, too soon. The eating disorder triumphed again.
Ultimately, I began to lack confidence that I could ever feed myself properly again. Maybe I was just one of those few who would struggle forever. Maybe I would never get better.
The problem wasn't me or my (seeming) inability to recover. The problem was the complexity of the task and my available skills to master it. It's like asking a five-year-old to do calculus. I'm sure there are a few Einsteins out there who can, but most of us can't. Not that we won't ever be able to do calculus after we learn addition and subtraction and algebra and infinite sums, just that we can't yet do calculus. We don't consider a kindergartner a mathematical failure if they can't figure out a differential equation. Yet I would be discharged from treatment with a sheet of paper containing a list of foods I was supposed to eat and a pat on the back and have no freaking clue where to go from here.
What I really needed was fewer sheets and more time and practice. I needed to start way more slowly than most people thought. This grated both my ego and my patience (like I said, nothing like a good career to contrast your epic catastrophes around eating). So I started with tasks I felt confident about, things like putting milk in my coffee (yes, caffeine is a massive theme in my life) or spending short times unsupervised and not exercising. Then I began to build on that. I could figure out an entire snack or spend a whole afternoon by my lonesome and not lace up my gym shoes.
It took years for me to get where I am now, which is that I can eat independently and not overdo the exercise (though the latter is still the largest struggle for me) even if no one is the wiser. I'm not always perfect, but I can be honest about that, too. I have mastery over basic recovery skills, whether it's feeding myself or calling a support person. I'm doing calculus. It took me a little over 11 years to get there from my 2+2s(kindergarten until junior year of high school), but then I ended up a math minor in college. The successes, whether in recovery, math, or even figuring out how to program your DVR, snowball. They build upon themselves. That's what things tend to do, whether successes or failures.
It took me a long, long time to be able to slow down and take recovery one step at a time. To stop feeling that I "should" be able to do something because everyone else could and it sounded easy, ergo, I should be able to do it. It's still hard for me to admit that I couldn't do these things, and not always for lack of effort. I can't juggle or do those silly Magic Eye things, either, despite a plethora of people who do have those capabilities. I've accepted that, more or less. It is what it is.
I guess, in the end, recovery is a process. A long, hard, difficult, pain-in-the-ass process. But I tackled it one step at a time, and I did, eventually, get there.
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