A little over a year, I stopped writing here.
I admitted to suffering from an eating disorder, then promptly scarpered. It’s not that I never intended to write more – I’d barely started, and I loved getting my mad musings out.
I stopped, and I left, because I felt like a fraud.
Why should anybody listen to anything I say when I’m weak and stupid enough to wind up with something as delightfully self-indulgent as an eating disorder?
That just goes to show how warped my thinking processes can get sometimes. I’d never be so callous towards anybody else who’s been through that particular hell – but my scumbag brain finds it perfectly acceptable to whale on me for what I accept without judgement in others.
My relapse was a one-off, and I’ve been symptom-free ever since. But I’ve stayed away so long because I felt icky about owning what I’d said. About being judged. About not being perfect.
In any case, regardless of how I may be perceived as an eating disorder survivor, being honest about my struggle seems important. Because I firmly believe that each and every one of us has a breaking point – a fault line as it were – down which we’ll crack given the right combination of pressure and stressors. At that moment, we’re no more to blame than a plate dropped on the floor.
If think you’re so bright and special and strong that you’ll never break – well, I used to think like you too. But I also never thought I’d be strong enough to fix myself, either.
The unpredictable can be beautiful as well as terrifying.