I spend hours painting paper white. Drawing something. Painting back over white. White every time. Let it dry. Try again. White white white white white until I sit down to spell the word white. W H I T E. Why is white a word? Who made it? I’ve been home from residential treatment for four months and I’ve erased every post on this blog from the past year. I started over with pictures and sayings. I stopped. White. White white white. Keep re-painting.
I’ve felt the pressure behind my thoughts to speak, the editing, the spinning circles of words between real funny and sick despair. The entry back into life after residential treatment is a foggy hilarious experiment, and this being my second time around, I put this expectation out that I would be twice as bold twice as amazing twice as blow everyone away with how fucking awesome I am. White. Painting white. It’s not that I’m a shit shit mess, it’s that my tongue is stuck and my head isn’t too far behind. I get really caught in existential planes of thinking. So often that I stare at furniture in stores and feel like everything around me is being shot at fast forward speed and I’m at the epicenter of a beautiful scene in a movie. A scene I could translate into art if I could get it out of my body. But I haven’t been able to. I keep painting white. I’m not desperate, I’m not even really that upset. I’m purely walking through this space of my life and absorbing the fact that it’s happening. I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything, I’m profoundly in a state of stillness wrapped discovery.
So where is my eating disorder in all this? Right here, nestled all clingy into my side. Yea it doesn’t get zapped out when you enter higher levels of care. Turns out eating disorders are pretty complicated. I’m exponentially better than when I first entered recovery, and it’s also my truth that I still battle this every day. I paint shit white and shape into this part of living that keeps unfolding. I foam at the mouth seeing skinny girls and sing 4 non blondes real loud in my car. Nothing is bad, nothing really has a label anymore and that is a gift. I have an eating disorder, I have a place in the world, and I’ll re-paint it white until it makes sense again.