Two years ago today my entire life changed. I entered treatment at the Renfrew Center of NYC for the anorexia I’d had since I was 14, but for which I’d never been treated.
At the time, I thought I would be in treatment for 4 to 6 weeks. It turned out to be 11 months — first a 6-month stint, then a 3-month, and most recently, a 2-month.
I can’t say that the last two years have been “good.” By and large, they’ve been painful — at times excruciatingly so. But I also can’t say that I would change what happened. I’ve learned so much about myself and about other people. I feel alive and more connected to the world than I ever have. I have hope for a future that I’m building for myself, and not the one that is expected of me.
Recovery, Two Years In
I’m struggling a lot these days. My body image is as bad, if not the worst, it’s ever been. I’m acutely aware during most moments of the day that I am embodied and that I deeply dislike that feeling — although I barely have the vocabulary yet to explain what I even mean by that. Every night I go to sleep simultaneously proud for having muscled brought another day of recovery and wary of just how long I can keep holding out again the anorexic voice in my head.
I’m forging ahead, though, and that’s not something I could say two years ago. It’s not a perfect recovery, but I’m doing pretty damn good.
Happy two years of recovery to me 
169 Days | 20 Hours | 8 Minutes | 36 Seconds
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I'm a writer, a mental health activist, and a 20-something in recovery from an eating disorder. This blog chronicles my journey through the middle ground toward full recovery.
