No Tale Tells All #4

Exactly a year ago, I was enduring inpatient treatment at Center for Change, trying to kick my anorexia for good (again). I was not happy to be there. It was the third time I’d dutifully packed my belongings and left my family and friends to “recover,” and I was tired of it. And this time...well…I had to leave my baby. My Cade, who was only four months old at the time.

I was quite a little deviant (not a compliant loser – haha Racher!) and did what I could to bend the rules. From getting in screaming matches with the care techs, (What do you mean we can’t watch King of Queens?! So what? There was like, a few fat jokes, and now you’re going to change the channel?!) to getting in trouble with my therapist for “talking and laughing too much” and not focusing enough on my recovery. She ended up making me wear a sign around my neck that said, “Please do not laugh at my jokes.” Ha! How can you not laugh at my jokes? I can’t help that I’m fricikn’ hilarious.
I mean, really.
And how do you get in trouble for laughing too much? Was I in a cushy treatment center that cost over a grand a day, or was I in a Nazi concentration camp? You tell me.

I reflect back on all that, and yeah, some of it is hilarious, like when Whit and I named her tube Fatty McButter Pants and got in trouble, or when Whit, Savannah, and I were just wickedly tickled when they served chocolate covered bananas for evening snack that looked like, well…can I be honest here?
They looked like dildos.
C’mon, people! Serve us something that isn’t teeming with sexual jokes. Our therapists weren’t too pleased with that one, either, were they girls?!

But as much fun (er, I mean un-fun) as I had, and as much as I learned, I’ve finally grasped the concept that there’s nothing better than working at recovery and staying out of that prison where they serve way too much food:

Me (to tech): Um, I was just given three pieces of cheesecake and a huge glass of chocolate milk. Everybody else got like one piece or even half a piece. Are you sure this isn’t some gross miscalculation on the cook’s part?

Tech: No. You’re not allowed to ask questions about what you’re served. You know you’re on weight-gain, so try not to worry and just eat it. (ha! As if!) Now bend over so I can wallop your rapidly growing butt. (Okay, that last part didn’t happen, but it does quite often in my dreams.)

And now, here I am, a year later, working a steady job (without having to ask frequently for days off because I’m so sick from starving myself or am too anxious and/or depressed to make it). I’m currently chowing down on Chex Mix and a sugar cookie, (kind of a sketchy combination, but it’s totally working for me) and I'm not feeling paralyzing guilt for eating and am not overly worried I'll gain thirty-seven pounds for having a snack. I have the coolest kid in the world that I get to laugh with and play with and tickle and hug and kiss and love every single day. I have the most amazing hubby ever, who has never once wavered in his love and dedication to me throughout all this. I almost couldn’t be happier. Wow. I never thought I’d say that!

So here’s to never going back to treatment again! Here’s to being imperfect and a bit uncomfortable in this skin of mine. Here’s to quitting modeling, here’s to sticking around for my husband and son, here’s to thriving. Here's to life. Damn. I so wish I had a glass of sparkling cider or something. I think a major toast is in order!