Straight lines

Several months have passed since I passed through the gates of Trinity, for what was the final, final time.

Several months have passed since I sat my last exam and signed off on the final chapter, the chapter of what had been, for me, an exhausting and painful journey through university.

And even since then my lifepath has been far from a dreamy stroll through a garden of summer flowers. I faced the frightening unknown of what awaited me in Spain, along with the fundamental but overwhelming decision of what path I would follow now, now that my time at Trinity was over.

Because it's true to say that I was fighting my college battle, with no particular destination or purpose in mind. I just knew I had to get through it, no matter what. I wasn't entirely sure what the light at the end of the tunnel actually would mean for me; or if, there even was, a light.



At times it felt as if there was no way out of this mess that I had created for myself. For it was me, after all, who chosen to come to Trinity. It was me who had eagerly sought out, and accepted, this course. And it was me who was now paying for my mistake, and for my rash, hasty decision.

But this year - 2017 - was one in which the path up the mountain touched upon some crucial, fundamental milestones; milestones which I never before even dreamt that I would lay eyes upon, let alone reach out to with disbelieving, trembling fingers. I got my degree at Trinity. I left the comforting surroundings of my home to work in Catalonia for five weeks, thrusting myself into the unknown with both fear and enormous bravery merging themselves within my heart. And, once again, I committed myself to that gruelling, relentlessly difficult climb: the climb up the mountain, of recovery. It was January after Christmas when I took full control over my relapse again, and since then I donned the attire of the recovery warrior, bravely approaching food and eating every day with bravery and determination and persistence.

But now it seems like I am on auto-pilot; that my progress, having reached a certain point, is just continuing on, without the slightest incline or decrease. I eat every day but my eating has become very rigid. I eat the same good amounts every day but I never once even contemplate increasing them. I do the same exercise, eat the same foods, at the same exact times. I feel like a computer programmed to do the exact same thing without the slightest alteration or adjustment.

The reason I don't change my current course of actions is, of course, the uncertainty. I don't know whether I should really try to put on a bit more weight. I don't know what my natural body realy looks like, what other people will say and think, and, of course, how I will deal with it. I don't know what I want to do with my life, what course, what job, what career, what future. And most of all I don't know if I will cope. Cope with that body, that life, that work schedule. Cope with anything.

But now I realise it's time to stop, and take a deep breath.

Auto-pilot mode has been beneficial to me, up to this very point, when all was required of me was to keep on eating the set amounts which I knew were enabling me to gain weight and restore my health. But now, it's time to readdress and rethink. To reflect on now exactly where I stand. And to put into practice all the plans and goals which I set for myself, but did not manage to achieve.

But it is, as with many things in life, the beginning of doing just that, which is the hardest part.

Take breakfast this morning for example. As I sat there at the table I thought to myself, well, Em. Are you going to do it? Eat even MORE than you usually would? And so filled with resolve I went to the bread packet and took out the very top slice, the crust - thicker than any other piece of that loaf - and put it into the toaster, pressing it firmly down with determination propelling my fingers. But then as I waited, the Voice began to murmur, again. It whispered about the profile picture that I had just uploaded to Facebook, exactly a week ago this day. You looked ok in that. your stomach was not so bloated as it is now. And you know Em what will happen if you were to eat that extra bit of bread. You know how fat and ugly it will look, and you know just as well how I'm going to give you a hard time over it.

I thought about the resultant disgust, the resultant anxiety, which I would inevitably come up against if I were to do the thing that minutes ago I had felt so resolute about. How I would spend the entire morning being preooccupied with my tummy, convinced - regardless of whether it was actually true or not - that my tummy had suddenly ballooned up more than ever, all because I ate just that one bit more of toast. (Out of all the foods I eat it's true to say that bread products make me the most bloated.) I shook my head, angrily trying to push away the doubt which was clutching to me tight. But Ed had forced open a crack in my resolve, a crack which was now widening to form a chasm, a chasm which I knew I was going to fall into. And once down there, he would have won. And won he did.

I found myself cutting up that lovely thick crust into about eight different pieces, three or two of which I put miserably to one side. I did not want to do it, but ED forced my hand.And wedged so tightly in that stifling chasm I didn't have the means to resist him.

So auto pilot Emily walks on with a heavy heart. Walks on in a steady straight line which is as flat and as featureless as the dullest, most unbroken landscape. The landscape of half recovery, I guess. I could wander and wander and wander forever here, always going along that same old line.

 Or I could choose...to go up, to go forwards. Starting right here, right now. Today. And I suppose a start would be for me to press publish on this post, now, and go and do the thing I've been avoiding now for a couple of months at least. That being to go and check the weight on my scales, and face up to the reality of whether or not I am still underweight.