I am thirty days in. Thirty days lived to tell the tale. Thirty days survived. The longest stretch of my eating disorder history, without the eating disorder. It tastes glorious (no pun intended!). I am floating above, beaming down on the strong, wise woman I am becoming. Vivacious, captivating, wildly freer than I remember, even as a child running through fields of golden-topped grasses. Free. Riding ponies because my demons cannot go there. Free.
Today was a celebration. I tasted sweet buttercream cake and rejoiced, chomped on handfuls of pistachios without a second thought, and ate my most forbidden, and triggering food, peanut butter … bountifully. I relished its taste, texture, missing it terribly, went for the second helping, then put it away. No guilt, knowing I had consumed more than my share, and loved it. Tomorrow I will wake up and exercise to burn the fuel that rushes through my veins, not to burn off the calories I have consumed.
Recovery is amazing, empowering, enlightening. And so real.