My best friend from college gets married this weekend. I am, as I type this, sitting in a major metropolitan airport awaiting my flight to see her. She is picking me up at 1:45 and away we go!
I wish I could say I were excited about this weekend. I am so excited to see her get married, to stand next to her while she does so, to offer my best wishes in the form of the traditional “maid of honor toast.”
But I am not excited to be away from home for five days. Not excited to be in someone else’s kitchen. Not excited to be tied to someone else’s schedule and not have the option to run to the gym at a moment’s notice. Not excited to sit at a head table with a plate of eggplant parmesan and a glass of wine and try to figure out how to deal. (Thank God it’s a wedding and people are expected to cry. So people will just assume I’m happy for my friend, not traumatized by a pasta dish.)
Last time I was with my friend for her bridal shower, it was easier – not easy, to be sure – but easier. I was a little more solid in recovery. A little more willing to fight the monster in my head. A little more able to go out to eat and trust that if I’m eating the same thing as the other girls (who were all on diets), then I should be okay.
As I flew from my home town on the first leg of this journey, I fought back tears. I am so terrified of this weekend. So scared of food and drink and people and dresses and pictures. And I know it is so very silly to be afraid of such things. It took the better part of an hour and a half flight to figure out that what I was feeling was shame.
Ashamed of my body.
Ashamed of my struggle.
Ashamed of my needs.
Ashamed of my fear.
Ashamed of me.
This entry is disjointed and hard to follow, but to be honest – this is exactly what my brain is sounding like at the moment.