I’m still on the road. It’s four years on from when I wrote this piece, and I think I’ve made some significant progress. Among other things, it’s been almost two years since I voluntarily vomited. Considering what came before, that’s something of a miracle. I forget sometimes, in my haste to remind myself that I’m utterly imperfect, how far I’ve come.
I’m on a road that stretches so far off into the distance, I can’t see the end. I’ve heard tell that once I get there, life will be better. I’ve heard the trip’s a challenge, but the destination makes it worthwhile. I’m told that once I get there, things’ll be alright.
Once I get down the road, I’ll be calm, grounded, and fully me. They tell me my eating disorder can’t live there.
They tell me I’ll be happy.
They tell me I’ll be free.
Those are appealing thoughts, so I start down the road again, determined to get going. I’m always desperate to escape my here and now.
The road’s unpaved and the weather forbidding. Ruts and puddles abound. There are no signposts, no hints as to how long the trip will take. There’s just the road, stretching out in front of me. Walking is an act of faith.
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