So many defeats it seems like. I walk through so many of my days in a mechanical fashion. Skip breakfast. Decent lunch. Go home and totally loose control. My MD is really proud of me though. Last time I saw her, she said that I looked better (physically and emotionally) than she had ever seen me. Of course, as soon as she said it, the old voices in my head started their chants and I began to beat myself up.
"I'm not any better. I obviously have her fooled."
"What is she thinking? I'm still binging, purging, restricting, and cutting!"
"I'll never get out of this. I may get a little bit better, but I'll never be free."
"My family would be so disappointed in me if they knew that I wasn't better yet. What a waste of time and money Remuda was. I am such a horrible person and a horrible daughter."
"I'm not worth all of the trouble everyone has put into me. I can't ever let anyone know that I still struggle. Or they too will realize that all the money spent was a waste. And then they'll realize I really am worthless."
Oh yes, how I love to beat myself up. It's so much easier than keeping hope. If I listen to my fears and all the negative things I believe about myself, than at least I won't be disappointed. I'll know I'm a failure and a terrible person and I won't expect anything more. The trouble is, deep in the heart of me, I know these things aren't true. The Holy Spirit lovingly tells me that they aren't true. But in the face of my addictions, my compulsions, and my fears, it is so hard to believe the truth over the lies. It is so hard to even see the truth over the lies.
The truth is that I'm not a failure. My MD was right--I am getting better. It is slow and I often take steps backwards, but I am getting better. My brother reminded me a few weeks back--when I was in the midst of a crisis and afraid I was going to slip totally off the edge of the cliff--that I have to recognize the small victrories I experience every day. Or maybe just every month. Who knows, whenever they come, I have to recognize and celebrate them.
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