I think time frames in general are working in unison to get me more off track. Minutes are increasingly tapped out into what then becomes hours that I thought might have been seconds. In the morning no matter what I do I either get to school really early or late enough to make my heart skip with imperfection in punctuality. I know I’ve mentioned this before but once again as I’m often in traffic I find myself preoccupied with the rear windshield wiper of the Prius car. So here’s my deal with that—it looks like it’s constantly out of place because it’s not resting down. And yes, I completely think about it. I think about why….why is this windshield wiper out of place? Why doesn’t it work? Why are things broken? I want to get out of my car and fix it, while we’re at this stop light. No. Stay put Ashley.
I’m tired. When I drive from school to treatment I get distracted by cloud shapes and construction flags and then I wonder if I’m still real. Pinch test. Yes. In class I often sprint in late, blinds on the door shifting, reminding my teacher I’m one of the “late kids” with coffee and a red face. He either thinks I have a typical young kid party problem or older kid busy with other life things problem. People perceive my age differently so I have no clue which end of his thoughts of my tardiness lies. Maybe he doesn’t even think about it, I would….but I also think about unclear intentions of windshield wiper placement. The community college setting of social work classes mimics 12 step meetings quite profoundly and I love it. I love hearing stories, perspectives and passion around angles of recovery. It wildly fits in that I’m there every morning and follow it up with 10 hours of partial hospitalization. Also, I’m fucking exhausted.
I can’t tell you how tired I am of my meal plan increasing. My body plateaued and has not been gaining weight for almost 4 weeks and to have that happen on what was already a stupid amount of food that gets stupider every week combined with sitting all damn day is infuriating. I am cooperating and working so hard and my body is just like “hey if you could do more….that’d be greaaaaaat”. My head is constantly pulsing between eating and processing therapeutic work and homework and paying attention and driving and trying to sleep. Yes. Yes I would love it if you could call me a waaaaambulence.
And someone to fix time to match what I think I’m doing with my feet and car to get places every day, and an explanation from the Prius car company explaining the rear windshield wiper decision.
Recovery from an eating disorder is harder than I often let sink in. Sinking in could mean giving up. My reflection of giving up glares into the matte fabric of my steering wheel every morning. I keep going. I float if I have to, often on existential clouds with formats of criticism and masked realities. Sometimes as I pull into my parking spot at night I play the song “mad world” really loud with my lights off and stare, my side ponytail often frazzled into a half hair out questionable side middle back position. Long days. Long road. My life on line and on board every step, my completely none other than me life fluttering floating beckoning wilting movement progression.