I just ate my first full (aka: Renfrew/dietitian-approved) meal in I can’t even tell you how long. I’ve eaten more today than I think I did the entire week I was in the hospital. I’m trying to sit with it, but *damn* it is not easy.
But my point is: I ate a full meal. So….I’m cured, right?
One meal isn’t going to fix it. So while I can maybe wrap my head around eating one meal, it is the thought all the meals that follow that completely freaks me out. It is the thought of all the pounds that stand between me and my normal, healthy weight that cause my stomach to turn. (Okay, so there might be some pills involved in that, too.)
I’m one of those people who had enough of a period of recovery at one point to know what her set point is. I actually managed to eat normally and intuitively, exercise in moderation, and just generally enjoy life. For almost a YEAR, people. In fact, it wasn’t until my grandmother died in 2009 that I had any thought of my eating disorder – and within 9 months, I was too stuck in hell to know how to get out.
But I digress – I know what my set point is. And, friends, this ain’t it.
In some regards, it is comforting to know where my body will naturally rest. In others, it is not at ALL comforting. It means that I know exactly how many pounds I will gain if I ever hope to reach a full recovery. It means that I am going to have to watch that scale go up, up, up all over again and try to deal with the fact that my set point is naturally higher than whatever crock of an “ideal weight” the BMI might tell me is minimally acceptable for my height.
I am going to have to gain all of this stupid weight all over again and I just don’t know that I can bring myself to do it.
Even if it means that I can be this happy, this healthy, this normal all over again:
(Okay, maybe “normal” is a stretch…)