Yesterday afternoon, after having dozed on the sofa, I had the sudden realization that it was my 4th anniversary for being eating disorder-free. It’s kind of an odd day to acknowledge I guess. Not a sad occasion, but I’m not sure that I’d call it a happy one either since it’s one I wish I had no reason to have in the first place. Similar to a D-anniversary, for me it’s a cause to reflect on where I’ve been, where I might be headed, and how to steer clear of pitfalls that might appear in my path. It reminds me of things I’d rather not consider, but it also reminds me that my life has changed for the better.

I considered whether or not I wanted to post about it. To write about something or not, it’s a question I ask myself many days. Often it’s because I can’t decide if I can make some run-of-the-mill diabetes issue or occurrence sound entertaining or thought-provoking. Sometimes the topic in question is one I’ve written about before, so it’s a matter of figuring out if I have anything new to say about it, which has a certain irony since diabetes itself is as repetitive, routine and rote as it gets. How many times does anyone want to read about me being high or being low or running out of test strips or…. well, you get the idea. There are occasions when I wrestle with whether or not writing something will offend someone or someones. Regarding some topics, I’m opinionated as all get out, but I’m not looking to make people mad or offend anyone or make an enemy where there wouldn’t have been one otherwise. Then there are times when I hesitate to write about something particular to someone else because I don’t like to assume everyone else wants to be the subject of my musings and ponderings.

Milestone

Certainly, I give some thought to whether or not I want to post things of a more personal nature. What happens if that hiring manager with my resume on their desk googles my name? Will they see someone worth hiring, or will they see a formerly really crazy person who’s still got a good deal of crazy going on, and can’t guarantee the super crazy won’t reemerge? When I do start spilling more personal stuff, I either cross my fingers having all this here on the WWW won’t come back and bite me in the behind, or I just pretend that possibility doesn’t exist. At the end of those days when I’ve tiptoed into TMI territory, I hope that someone somewhere got something from reading whatever I might have shared, and if there is a price to be paid in the form of a lost opportunity or criticism or doubts about me, well, so be it as long as one good thing came of it.

So the lingering question once I realized the significance of the day was whether or not I wanted to say anything about it here. There was a time before I blogged when talking about it was terrifying. Then it became strangely liberating, which actually isn’t so strange if one considers that I wore myself thin, no pun intended, to keep it a secret for the 18 years it was a perpetual black cloud over my head. Days of recovery became weeks became months which have now become years though, and there’s a part of me that wants to sweep it under the rug. It’s as much a part of my current existence as I want to make it, and I think it’s no surprise that there’s a strong inclination to leave it in the past since it’s hardly something to be proud of.

In the midst of deliberating if I had anything worth saying about it, it was way past most normal people’s dinnertime, and we had yet to eat, so I decided we should go out for dinner. We didn’t go anywhere fancy, just someplace we often go to grab a quick dinner. The hostess seated us, we discussed our menu options, and waited for the server to take our order. Ironically enough, our waitress was a girl with whom I was in treatment 4 years ago. A couple of years ago, Jason and I went to grab lunch after a movie, and I heard someone say my name. She was there in her uniform, greeting me with a big smile. She asked how I was, but it seemed to me that the unspoken question was how is your recovery going. I told her I was great, that things were going really well. I then asked her the same, and her eyes gazed through the floor to the left of her, as she unenthusiastically and reluctantly said she was OK. It’s worth mentioning that I hadn’t even recognized her at first because she was significantly skinnier than when she had been in treatment. She gave me a hug before she scurried back to work. Before we left, I scribbled my phone number on a scrap of paper from my purse, and gave it to her, telling her to call me if she needed to talk. I never heard from her.

Since then, I’ve seen her there many times, but we’ve never interacted, nor has she been our server. Until last night. I was fiddling with my phone when I recognized her voice, so I looked up. I was wearing my Eagles baseball cap so maybe she hadn’t realized it was me with my nose in my phone. We made eye contact, but she didn’t say anything to me though, and I didn’t say anything to her. It’s standard operating procedure to not “out” people with whom one has been in group mental health treatment, which is especially true if said person is at their place of employment. Although she had seemed happy to see me that day two years ago, I couldn’t assume she felt the same way last night. So it was weird trying to pretend like I didn’t know her, taking her lead. It made me sad because she’s still very thin, and my gut says she’s still struggling. Maybe I’m wrong, but I hate thinking that I might be right.

In that nonfrontation (you know, like confrontation, but not), I found my answer to whether or not to post. I obviously can’t help anyone who doesn’t say anything, ask or come looking for help, but if I put it out there that there is help, that it is possible to overcome an eating disorder, that life is so much better once it’s a thing of the past, then maybe someone will come searching and find the blog or this post or another post I’ve written on the subject.

I hope it helps someone who’s considered taking a so-called short-cut to weight management see that the cost of an eating disorder isn’t worth whatever benefits are perceived. I hope someone who’s suffering with their own eating disorder can see a glimmer of hope that recovery is possible, as impossible as it might feel. I hope a parent is reminded to have an honest discussion with their diabetic kid about body image and dangerous weight management practices. I hope a parent is reminded to not be so quick to completely hand over the reins of diabetes care just because their kid seems mature enough because once you hand those reins over, good luck reclaiming them if your kid starts to flounder. Remember, the day will come when all that responsibility will fall squarely in their lap, like it or not, so there’s some benefit to all involved if a parent maintains at least some degree of active participation.

It’s hard to live with myself knowing all I did to not take care of myself and how that took a toll on all aspects of my life. I do think things happen for a reason though, and so I keep hanging on to the hope that someone else will learn or get inspired or otherwise benefit from my screw-ups. And that’s why I decided to post.