Recovery is eating breakfast, lunch, and supper even though I’m deathly afraid of gaining weight. It’s staying in for the night to watch movies while curled up under a blanket while sipping on a hot chocolate because sometimes I need to take some time for myself. It’s going to a Zumba class because it gives me body confidence, instead of running on the elliptical until I’ve burned an acceptable number of calories.

Recovery is getting lectured at therapy for losing weight two weeks in a row and then crying the next week because I gained. It’s letting fractions of a pound control my self worth, but eventually accepting myself enough to know I’m more than just a number on the scale.

Recovery is ordering a fear food at the cafeteria and then sitting there for 30 minutes staring at it and having an anxiety attack, while everyone else around me is eating mindlessly. It’s not being able to shower for days because I can’t fathom seeing myself naked.

Recovery is thinking I’m happy and content with my life one day and not being able to get up out of bed the next day because the numbness I feel makes me feel lifeless. It’s taking medication to help with my emotions in a society where taking medication for a mental illness makes a person seem weak.

Recovery isn’t a straight and narrow path full of daisies and lollypops. It’s more like walking on a rocky path through a mountainous terrain. It’s a bumpy ride full of numerous ups and downs. Some situations are going to seem like lifting a boulder, while others will seem like kicking a tiny pebble to the side of the road. There are times when being recovered seems so far away and there are others where it seems just within reach. I am far from being recovered, but I know that the view at the top of my recovery mountain will be better than any distorted view my eating disorder has given me.