Wednesday, September 2, 2015
I keep looking down at my arms. Right now I hate them. They seem fleshy, doughy, ugly, and I'm sad about them...or am I? I'm increasingly uncomfortable in my skin lately, and yet doubtful that it has much of anything to do with my physical form. There are changes that I'm longing to make in my life, but they aren't practical changes, and in fact are impossible at this time, and so I'm stuck. It is a heavy, claustrophobic feeling, and because I'm learning to recognize the distorted way that my mind works, I'm almost certain that these feelings are spilling over into how I feel about my body. I might as well cry about my arms, because I can do something about them. I could work on changing them, just so I can feel productive, and not worry about the parts of my life I can't change. This is how eating disorders work. It will attempt to sneak in, trying to find the weak spot, and I'm strong enough and smart enough to recognize it for exactly what it is, which certainly doesn't make me feel any better. I'm still uncomfortable, and want to feel better. When I was new to recovery, nothing made me more angry than having my treatment team tell me to "sit with my feelings." It still doesn't sound appealing, but from past experience, I trust that I will find my way through. I'm exactly where I need to be, and for whatever reasons, so I may as well hold on tight with my meaty, substantial arms. At least they are good for something, right?