Invisible.

Have you ever felt like a visitor in your own life? As though you don’t belong anywhere? Not among any group of people, not in any situation, relationship, space or time? A deep rooted feeling of not belonging. Unable to shake. Unbearable to carry.

Yet this is my life.

For as long as I can remember I never felt like I fit in. Not in school, not at a job, not with friends, not in romantic relationships, and not even with my family. I have always felt like “that one over there.” People kind of like me, or maybe they like the idea of me, yet no one wants to claim me. No one wants to call me their own, part of their tribe, a piece of their puzzle.

I can only get so close to people. I can only do so well at work. I can only do so much for others. Still going unnoticed, head down, and constantly fighting for a place in this world.

Being a loner hasn’t always been self imposed. It’s just that you get tired of feeling less than. It hurts more to stand along the fray of the crowd than to omit your translucence from the picture. It hurts more to stare at the phone waiting for someone to care enough to ask how you are and really want to know. And it’s crippling to continue to put trust in the wrong people who are all to quick to take advantage of your generosity and kind heart.

This is why I long to live between the mountains and the fields. My bones ache to feel more connected to the earth than to its people. The sun a more steady presence than most, and the moon more faithful than any man I’ve ever been with.

I yearn to come and go as I please, answering to no one, asking for comfort from the stars and kisses from cool breezes.

I don’t belong here. I’ve never belonged anywhere. And no one would miss me if I were gone.

Some day my time to roam will come. Some day I will find a sense of belonging within myself, and there I’ll make a home.

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Not Mine.

I envy freedom. It’s a taste I’ve long since forgotten.

How I yearn for those days, that life, my life. My life is no longer my own. Freedom tied tightly to a string and let go with the wind.

My life is no longer my own.

My mom recently said to me, “Life is about choices.” “I know,” I said. “But the kids were not my choice.”

Because sometimes we forget it is entirely possible to become a victim of circumstance. No matter how many strangers commend me or tell me I have the option to walk away, it’s not as simple as either. Being this, playing this role, is both a gift and a curse. It was done both to me and for me. But a choice it was not, and a choice it is not.

You see, when there are other lives in the mix, little lives, you can’t simply turn your back over the legalities. When children need you they need you. It doesn’t matter who you are. A provider is a provider, and children need to be provided for. They are already suffering. How selfish of others to think it’s as simple as “you can step away.”

No, I cannot.
No, I will not.

But, oh, how I took my freedom for granted.

I wish I had lived a little more, traveled a little farther, stayed out later, seen more sunrises, and loved a little harder. Because now… Now, there is no going back.

I spent the last few years of freedom suffering in my own emotional hell. I wasted my time while I wasted away. And I can never get it back. Those long lonely hours, night spent awake, nights spent away.. They are all gone now. My freedom to be sick is gone now. The choice of whether to stay or to go is no longer my own to make.

 

 

Some days I mourn the loss of who I could have been.

Caffeinated Confessional #1

Our household was unfortunately struck down by a really nasty virus over the weekend. My birthday weekend of all times. What a lovely gift to be given. A test of health.

We survived.

But something more happened to me. And it may seem silly to some people to think something as simple and common as a winter virus could throw me into such a tale spin but it’s happened.

Not being able to eat much for days, the pain of even trying, the nagging calls for satiation, they were so familiar. So longed for. Comforting.

Something I’ve tried to swear up and down about is never going back to my eating disorder. I’ve thrown out every cliche reason you could think of. I’ve talked an incredibly good game.

I never believed myself.

So when the numbers slowly start to tick in the opposite direction and the silent thrill zaps deep into your bones, it’s not easily ignored.

It’s been four years, entering the fifth, since I defiantly made the decision. Thousands of days, even more hours. Tripping and falling and getting back up yet never quite regaining the same steam.

Then these easy entrance ways open up, and the aroma of that sweet poison washes over me like a cloud. And I’m trapped between two doors. Going back to what is comfortable, disastrous, alluring and exciting. Or staying in this cycle of will I or won’t I, am I or aren’t I, can I or can’t I.

And my body starts to shake, expelling any good sense I’ve got left trapped inside of me. It hovers over me as though I’m in danger of taking my last breath. Choose wisely.

I feel:

I tempted fate.

I tested myself. I tasted that sweet sweet hunger, and its calls were deafening.

I’d be lying if I said I never prayed to fall back on it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the anguish, the tremors, the incessant pangs. No, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it, if I didn’t call on it, if I didn’t kneel down and grovel for just a touch of it.

As far away as I may run, it’s still right behind me. As much lightness as I keep near to me, its darkness is never far.

I hear it whisper in the winds. I hear it under every footstep. I feel it coursing through my veins the longer I go without.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t missĀ it.

I feel as though I’m faced with an impossible decision. Sheepishly cower backward into the arms of my deranged former self. Or stand in who I am in this moment. Unsure. Vulnerable. Missing and incomplete yet forward facing.

To anyone who’s never been strangled by their own mind the decision would seem clear. Cut and dry. But when something promised to love you so, never to leave your side, never to abandon you the way anything or anyone else ever has, it feels weighty.

I’m looking over my shoulder longingly. I want to cry out. I want to keep it locked safe inside of me.

It’s always been mine. Mine to keep.

I’m not sure what to do with all of this.

Intellectually, sure, the ‘right’ decision would be to root deeper into recovery. Allow this to teach a lesson about self love, distance and depth, forgiveness, resistance.

No one ever said people who’ve suffered eating disorders always think rationally.

This certainly won’t make sense to most people but it makes perfect sense to me.

xx