An Admission of Guilt

Recovery is not linear.

I repeat this to myself as I realize that I am waiting for my scale to zero out so I can step on it before I get in the shower.

It's a habit I got into when I was pregnant, weighing myself every Tuesday, but I kept it up after the baby was born, and I realized the other day that I am no longer doing it on Tuesdays.
I am weighing myself every morning.

Then something else started happening.

I started seeing a number I wanted to keep.
A low number.

And without even thinking about it, all of them, all of the behaviors I've worked so hard to let go of in the last two years began creeping back into my days.

And so did all of their consequences.

Weird food rules.

Like not allowing myself to eat before 11am.

Even when my stomach is growling.

Not allowing myself this or that thing if I haven't had blank number of servings of vegetables first.

Not allowing myself to eat before I've gone for a morning walk.

Not allowing myself to eat if I haven't had 16oz of water first.

And fuck fuck fucking fuck, I let it tell me all of that.

I made excuses for it. Like it was a bad boyfriend.

I'm not really restricting, I'm eating plenty of food.
I'm not ignoring my body's needs, I always stop when I feel full.
I'm not keeping myself from eating certain foods, I eat anything I want.

Then the pendulum swung, and I binged.

I felt so hungry, and I ate right through my hunger cues into my fullness cues and then past those into my discomfort.

I ate enough to feel sick to my stomach and not to want to eat again for the rest of the day.

Then the shame began.

I lay awake wondering what I'd done wrong.
I woke up vowing today would be different,
and then I did it again.

You read that right.

I restricted all day, and then I binged at night.

And this time, I felt like I was in a car my Eating Disorder was driving drunk, and I knew it was dangerous, I knew I should pull over and get out, but I just had to see if it really was going to crash, and I really was going to die.

And the thing is, it didn't crash this time.
I didn't die.

But I will be asked to get back in this car every day, every morning, every hour for the rest of my life, and if I say yes every time, one day, I will crash, and I will die, and it will be because I let this thing convince me that a bunch of worthless rules, a bunch of stupid meaningless rules, are more important than my body, my life, and my son. I will pretend that they give me control over the uncontrollable, and then I will miss out on every other important thing happening in my life.

So I repeat to myself, recovery is not linear.

And I forgive myself for blundering back into the insidious, sticky swamp of my disordered behaviors. I hope I caught myself in time.
I know that there will be other moments that I fuck this up, but all I can do is take it one hour at a time, one day at a time, one meal at a time, and most importantly, tomorrow, I am going to eat breakfast when I get up and relax for the rest of the day.

And I am not getting on that fucking scale.