I lost my friend Travis, my favorite ginger (other than myself, obviously), and one of the most genuine people I've ever known.
I survived several breakups: The first was with what I thought was my dream job; the second, my fiance; and finally, with one of my best friends.
I lost my home, my credit score, and (temporarily) my sanity.
But here I am. All of this loss has lead me seek (actively and sometimes desperately) myself. And finally, I'm here; I'm awake.
Maybe loss gives you a reason to step back and reassess the people, situations, things in your life. All this trauma, all of the things I gave up and had taken away, they provided me with something I may not have otherwise gotten: Opportunity.
Sometimes, maybe things have to get worse before they can get better. In November, I admitted myself into a partial hospitalization for depression & anxiety. I was desperate- even my dreams were anxiety-provoking. Most days, I was paralyzed by fear, and some days it was impossible to leave my bed, let alone my house. I had no idea that what I was getting myself into was going to lead to another major event: I was diagnosed with Bulimia.
It's interesting to me that one could go 27 years with an eating disorder and never, ever even consider that what I was dealing with was, in fact, an eating disorder. But after 6 months of intensive treatment, the thing that I've learned above all else is this: When you're sick, you don't always know that you're sick.
It took me months- in fact, until very, very recently- to accept that I do have an eating disorder. For me, it's not about insecurities, or being as thin as possible; it's about being numb and having control over something. Anything.
It's easy to believe that that uneasy feeling in your stomach that makes you feel like you're going to vomit, and so you don't eat for fear of actually vomiting is a symptom of anxiety. And it's easy to blame binge-eating on depression. Over-exercising? Blame anxiety. Blame, blame, write it off, and jump straight into the downward spiral that is ED. Hello, rebound relationship.
So loss? Sucks ass. And I'm not sure that I will ever stop fighting the part of me that wants to avoid feeling anything like the plague, but it's gotten better. I actually cried at my grandma's funeral. And again, and again, and again. In fact, I might cry now- and I'm ok with it. Because I? don't want to use my body as a punching bag for my emotions anymore.
In all this loss, I've found myself (maybe with a little help from good ole St. Anthony... I did go to mass recently, for the first time in years). At least, for now.
And I'm writing again. On paper, in Word documents, on this blog... Every single time I have sat down to write, or thought about writing, in the last few months, the words don't flow. But they're back, and so am I.
P.S., that picture? Is my amazing Grandmother outside the apartment building she grew up in in Manhattan. She's fabulous, I know.
