sometimes you just need to hear it

I remember sitting in my hospital bed–I had been there long enough to call it mine–with a monitor attached to my chest. It was a machine to monitor my heart rate, which was projected at every moment to a screen at the nurse’s station. I passed this screen (and squinted my eyes to find my flashing number) when I chose to take my 2 daily allotted laps around the unit. 

I was walking too fast–the nurses would say–I was making the monitor beep; my heart rate was increasing too quickly and that was a risky no-no. But I couldn’t not power-walk down those halls, c’mon. More than my diseased brain wanting to burn as many calories as possible, I didn’t want anyone to see me.The other patients would surely be disgusted by the size of my humongous body. I sincerely thought this, dear reader, with a heart rate monitor attached to my chest. 

It is very hard to think about. It feels important, though, to write about the lies our brains are capable of telling us. 

I looked in the mirror and saw myself distorted—according to it, I wasn’t sick at all; I shouldn’t have been there; I should be at school, at home, with my family. One night my heart rate dropped below 40, and I woke up to a panicked nurse’s face. I wasn’t sick at all. Somehow I believed that. 

It feels both important and self indulgent, dear reader, to talk about the guilt I feel around my illness. It is painful to remember my willfulness towards recovery when I was given so much help. The very strange apathy that comes from wanting so badly to recover for one’s family, yet feeling absolutely undeserving of it is, ya know, a real bitch. 

If this is where you are–if you are fighting through apathy, distortion, fatigue, hear this: you SO have a shot. You’ve got more than a shot, dear reader, you can recover. I promise. Don’t give up, will ya? The number of doctors that nodded, took notes, then told me they thought I couldn’t do it…I was twenty fucking something years old. Do not believe that bullshit. 

Believe sincerity, dear reader. Believe the people who want to help you, truly. You’ll know when you’ve found them. 

I remember sitting in my hospital bed–though it wouldn’t be mine for much longer–and meeting the founder of the eating disorder unit I was in. He looked me dead in the eyes. “I read your chart,” He said, smiling, “You’re going to be just fine.” 

I cried. What else was there to do?

Sometimes you just need to hear it. Maybe he was bluffing, but I couldn’t care less. In those words I heard, “You’ll feel deserving soon.”

I fucking did, man. 

It’s been a year since I’ve weighed myself. 

I love you so much. 

You’re going to be just fine.