Going through old blog posts is an interesting process. I regret not having the Grammarly extension back in the day. Correcting my historic affection for no capital letters continues to annoy.
I’ve also started doing what I thought I’d never do, and that’s delete some of the “amazing” works I set loose on the world back in the day. I’d planned to preserve the site in pristine glory until I realized that many of the posts were dreck, and correcting everything would take forever.
It’s a challenge to my perfectionism, to accept how imperfect I am. I remind myself it was the content that was important: perfection was less important than getting the thoughts out the door (arrogance and a rejection of proofreading were also a factor).
I had an idea when I started the blog that I would be honest when it came to my eating disorder. I thought it would help my recovery: after nearly four decades of an active eating disorder, I was done and willing to get better. Except when I wasn’t.
I wasn’t, however, as honest as I could’ve been. I worried about exposing that much ugly truth to the uninitiated. Does it matter, do you think, that I don’t discuss so many of the hard and traumatic memories? They’re represented. Getting detailed would take a lifetime.
However, even with that bit of prevarication, the progress I’ve been able to make in four years feels amazing. I was pretty convinced I couldn’t get it done. I was sorry about that: treatment was expensive for my parents. But six months after leaving care, I was still so far gone, I feared it would be fatal.
Luckily, I bounced.
I still struggle to live with my “imperfect” body, especially my stomach and thighs, and the dark side still calls me to come back: Just for a minute. Just until you lose ten pounds. Maybe twenty? No one will love you if you’re fat. My eating disorder tries hard to stay heard, and that last one stings. Mostly because part of me believes it, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.
The odd thing about change is you don’t notice when you’re doing it. We’re as we ever were in our heads. Reviewing old posts lets me see how far I’ve come in truth. I’m surprised by how much has changed. The arguments I had with myself about eating are mostly gone, for one. I don’t miss them.
I’ve still miles to go: I’m not done recovering. I still hate on bits and pieces of myself every day (though that’s tragically normal for the world at large). I’m reminded, however, as I reread and remember, that despite being imperfect, I’m getting stuff done. Even hard stuff. .
I’m going to be proud of what I’ve accomplished so far. The distance I’ve travelled is no small thing.