Sixth Scintillating Story
When I was 15, I didn't know how to properly process stress so I internalized it instead. I apparently did this too much or too often or was just too stressed about stupid things in life because I ended up damaging the nerve in my stomach. At least, that's what the doctor's figured in the end. I was out of school for two and a half months. That's why I transferred.
They told me the road back to my life wasn't going to be any fun. And they were right. They also told me that I'd face two possibilities. The first was that this was a one-time deal and between medication and sheer force of will, my body would start working properly again and life would go on its merry way. The second option was that I'd done some serious damage and that I'd spend the rest of my life carefully courting the boundaries of health and relapse.
It took me over two years to accept that I'd gotten the latter. I kept saying, nono, it's just lingering. If I kick it once and for all, it'll be gone. Really! But it wasn't.
I did get better though. My relapses were spaced farther apart. I learned how to hold back. I learned how to express stress. I learned to just keep pushing at the end of the semester, knowing I could collapse during summer or winter break and pull myself back together in time for the next round of classes.
I learned enough that I could stop telling people. I went months without being sick. I could eat normal meals. I learned to stop letting it define me and I promised myself that I'd never go back to that room - to that space and time - where I was sick and weak and scared. I promised myself I'd never see rock bottom again.
I know I'm not perfect. And no matter what I tell myself, I'll never be superwoman. Eight years later, I'm still walking a tightrope, dancing on the edge and refusing to look down. But I'll push through because I made a promise to myself that I intend to keep. I've come too far to be brought down again and the life I'm creating won't stand by and wait for me.
They told me the road back to my life wasn't going to be any fun. And they were right. They also told me that I'd face two possibilities. The first was that this was a one-time deal and between medication and sheer force of will, my body would start working properly again and life would go on its merry way. The second option was that I'd done some serious damage and that I'd spend the rest of my life carefully courting the boundaries of health and relapse.
It took me over two years to accept that I'd gotten the latter. I kept saying, nono, it's just lingering. If I kick it once and for all, it'll be gone. Really! But it wasn't.
I did get better though. My relapses were spaced farther apart. I learned how to hold back. I learned how to express stress. I learned to just keep pushing at the end of the semester, knowing I could collapse during summer or winter break and pull myself back together in time for the next round of classes.
I learned enough that I could stop telling people. I went months without being sick. I could eat normal meals. I learned to stop letting it define me and I promised myself that I'd never go back to that room - to that space and time - where I was sick and weak and scared. I promised myself I'd never see rock bottom again.
I know I'm not perfect. And no matter what I tell myself, I'll never be superwoman. Eight years later, I'm still walking a tightrope, dancing on the edge and refusing to look down. But I'll push through because I made a promise to myself that I intend to keep. I've come too far to be brought down again and the life I'm creating won't stand by and wait for me.