Trigger warning: Nasty-ness coming right at ya
Sometimes, the best conversation is the an inner dialogue…
That doesnt quite go for this one…
Can you guys guess what this picture is?
A ventriloquist is someone who speaks through a dummy. In my case, the dummy is me. Want a zoom-out to see what I’m talking ’bout here?
So, honestly. Did you guess it right?
No, this isn’t a ‘recovery belly’.
No, this isn’t a bloated belly.
No, this isn’t a preggo-belly.
No, this isn’t me leaning forwards.
No, this isn’t me pushing my belly out.
Actually, this is me, sucking my belly in.
This is what led me to cry for days straight (and my mum too, I must add). And then it’s what caused a complete breakdown in a Primark fittingroom (seriously, a Primark dressingroom will cause a breakdown for anyone, let alone if this greets you in the mirror). This is the reason I have been avoiding mirrors for weeks, or is it months?, already.
This, my dear readers, is my belly. Or, bellies, if you will.
And this is why I am now dreading six weeks of Cuba. Bikini’s? No fucking way. This is why I laugh when I see other recovery bloggers post pictures of their ‘huge’ belly/arms/legs/thighs. This is what makes me remenisce my year of Asia, where I basically lived in my bikini.
Because that is what greets me in the mirror.
Or, it greets me without a mirror too.
It’s just there… All the friggin’ time.
Do not think I ever forget, because when I almost do, I’ll accidentally bump my arm across it. Or I get up from a chair to feel my legs jiggle. Or I sit down to feel my muffintop bump into place. Or I’ll strut down the stairs to jump at the feeling of my thighs touching. Or I see my upperarms jazzing away when I do the dishes.
My body does not let me forget about it for a second.
Helloooo, Sooz, us flabs will gladly remind you of our presence!
So I cry. And cry. And cry some more.
>> How did I ever let things get this far? <<
And my answer? Ofcourse! I binge.
You gotta love some eating disorder logic!
And still, I cannot cut back. Not even a little. We all know where ‘cutting back’ leads to? The silly thing is, I CAN cut back a little, health-wise I mean. Or start exercising (ugh..). But I don’t. I want to, but I don’t. Because I am recovering from ANOREXIA, so I should eat. And eat. And eat some more. Yeah, that’ll teach ED..
If this makes sense to ANYONE out there, explain it to me, puh-lease!
As long as it doesn’t yet, yeah.. I just discuss it with myself. &My belly. As the ventriloquist and her dummy. Her dumb-belly. One day, we will be famous. Until then, I leave you with one of my collegues on Youtube >>Click here<< Me, myself and my belly have long conversations.
We are.. inseperable.
Yup, belly is here to stay.
It is funny how, along the way of recovery, I thought SO MANY TIMES; OMG, I am getting so fat. And then, a few months later, I realize how silly that was. What I’d give to go back to that body.
My hipbones? MIA for months. I didnt know how much I loved them until they were covered in endless laaaayers and laaayers of
fat protection. My sorta concave-looking belly? Not eventhere when I lie down and suck it in. The gap between my legs? Gone with the wind. Cheekbones? Collarbones? Ribs? Na-ah.
I reached the BMI20 (almost. Some days).
>> Go buy cake and celebrate <<
I hope this post didn’t put anyone off from recovery.
You should know I don’t exercise. Not a bit. No walking, no running, no stretching, no ‘oh so healthy’ yoga etc. Nothing. Nor do I follow a mealplan (or have I ever). Nor do I ‘eat clean’ (which, to me, is really just a way of trading one disorder for another). I am really hoping that six weeks of Cuba will at least help me get over my eating-crazyness (as I will be with someone all.the.friggin.time… Poor girl. She has no idea what she’s getting herself into). And then after that.. Maybe… I can see if there’s any activity I like doing (apart from walking to the fridge and back..). I’ve never done sports. Ever. I hate things that involve competitiveness. And things that involve sweating. (Except for sunbathing. But then I first want my old body back to strut around the beach with..).
And also, honestly, some days, with proper clothing and covering and a happy face and good fun and not too much water retention from bingeing etc. I don’t look all that bad. And I get compliments. And I have a bum again (one that does not leave two dimples on my parents’ leather sofa where my bum-bones had rested when I ‘sat’ there). And even boobs. Thats the only wigglejiggle I like, they make me feel…. Adult-like. They’re still tiny compared to anyone else’s but at least there’s SOMETHING there, like, there’s something for a push-up to actually push úp, if that makes any sense. And my legs can fill out trousers again instead of them being snug around the waist yet slugging around the rest of my legs/thighs (not that I wear trousers, but hey, I could if I had some). And when my insomnia isn’t all that bad, I can sleep. Without night pain, without bruises from my bed, without my head planning meals and worrying about get-togethers. I can run to get my dog when she’s out on the loose again without feeling like the world will disappear beneath my feet. I can have a drink, or.. a few, without my face instanty dehydrated into some skeletal version of me with firehouse-red cheeks and getting drunk after a sip. I’m not cold 24/7 anymore, and when I am, it’s not the ‘inner-cold’, that one deep deep from within your body. I get stares on the streets for the good reasons instead of the disgust or sympathetic stares. I don’t discover random bruises on random body parts on daily basis anymore whereof I have no clue how they got there. When I go out with my friends and embaress them, it’s because of something I do or say (as WILL happen, it’s a gift) and not just from ‘being there’. My baby cousins will hug the crap out of me again, instead of staying at a safe distance. I can go traveling again, because my body will be able to get me around again, my mind can cope with the thought again and because my parents feel like they can let me again. I have my own place again, instead of being forced to move back into my parents place. I finished my year of Uni with pretty alright marks, instead of having to quit by both external and internal forces.
My point of this post?
Yes, there is more to recovery than belly-fat.
A lot more, actually.
There’s also leg-fat, cellulite, arm-fat…. )
There’s more life here. And less silly stress. And more opportunities. There’s so much more here.
Yes, there’s still tears and frustration on a daily basis.
But I can put it into perspective differently.
Because there is so much more I gained than just weight.