May this post bear words of honesty and vulnerability, of authenticity and raw emotion, and also the lamest introduction ever.
This is a photo I treasure, of me and my old retriever Remi. She was once a symbol of recovery and new beginnings, a puppy we got during one of my hospital stays, but she now lives with an ex-partner since we separated almost three years ago. At the time, my eating disorder was well-ingrained but untreated. I'd had multiple hospitalisations for suicide attempts and mood stabilisation. But I remember moments of happiness here. I remember the warmth of the sun on my back in this picture, the softness of her coat amongst the creek-water smell. She was also due with puppies in the not-too-distant future.
Fast forward three years and I don't have Remi anymore, nor my sweet Marlow whom I tried to fill her void with. I've had countless hospitalisations - in the midst of one now - and a diagnosis list a mile long. And this is the most anti-recovery thing to say, but my eating disorder has been rampant every moment to this one, but my body clings to the kgs no matter what I do, and I can't stop until my body is back how I think it should be. I'm tired and fed-up, frustrated and overwhelmed. Sick of being hospitalised. Sick of feeling like a dysfunctional and broken human being. Because it never ends. All the meds and therapy in the world aren't bringing peace.
I crave nights by the fire snuggled with Remi. I crave having Marlow curl up under my covers as I fall asleep. I crave love and someone to share it with. Because no matter how hard I try, I cannot find any for myself.