In the making

I’ve been in treatment for three weeks now and every day I think of words to write, I type on the keyboard I draw in my journal I fill lines with ink and close every form that holds my words and I pull back into staring outward.  It’s again become a whirlpool of looking out into the universe with questions that topple over into more questions until the word question becomes a statement that then folds into an origami structured too intricate to unfold….or maybe the thoughts in their intricate nature look so beautiful with no resolution that I choose to stare at them.  I keep waking in transitional feelings that often warp.  Often trickle down and morph throughout the air and I begin conscious awareness of my breaths, I roll out of bed, I go to the bathroom and stare at the floor, stare at the space my scale used to be.  I stand over the space sometimes, imagining numbers and then I see numbers climbing the walls and turn to wash my hands, getting lost in the water falling on my limbs.  The mirror opens a hole in my chest as I fight catching glimpses of minute details that explode into perceived rolls of endless excessive growing fat.  My vision becomes glazed with a hazy film as I turn away, wrapping my body in a fuzzy robe.  Wrapping myself in comfort that I’m doing the right thing as I make breakfast and turn on the today show, pet my cat, make my bed, write out daily intentions and gratitudes, touch things in my apartment, connect with forms I love:  plants, textures, dishes, fishes, desks, couches, laptop….life.  My life.  My life without my eating disorder.  Forms that aren’t about my weight or curves.  

Time moves fast and slow here, each minute lately I am at peaks of distortion in my bones and vessels.  I fall underwater in silent inward movement and stillness.  I lose and rise I spiral into progress.  I’m sad.  I’m tired.  I’m fighting so hard.  It’s a sectioned work of art, a bypass to dying from a disorder so gripping.  Holding my hands out into fists wrapped in socks so I don’t reach for bones.  Wrapping my body in comforting clothes that don’t grip me into the eating disorder voice defining my life with sizes.  I’m looking out windows right now, watching the light change, watching it blend into colors of decent that will again shift to rise.  I choose the same.  I choose to blend from decent to rising every day.  

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