I always presumed wrongfully that I was recovered when I was in fact so far from it. When I stopped throwing up my food in my late teens, I assumed I had overcome bulimia, only to realise I had just jumped the fence straight into the arms of anorexia.
When I moved overseas, claiming I was better, I found myself on my knees at the mercy of the toilet bowl in my European apartment, promising myself this was the last time.
On my return home, crippled by an injury, I convinced myself that I could lose weight and stop eating because I did not need to fuel myself to exercise.
I dodged a hospitalisation by a kilogram because “I was fine. I was recovering.”
All these times I thought that I was recovered. That this was the best it would be. That I would teeter on the edge of sick and well and choose well most of the time.
But let me tell you, I know now what recovery is.
It’s eating a pizza, drinking cocktails and going skinny dipping in the ocean because you are not afraid of yourself anymore.
It’s going on dates and allowing yourself to feel sexy in the presence of another human being.
It’s walking past an unhealthy girl and not feeling envious, but instead feeling pity and sadness for that poor girl.
It’s not posting daily on Tumblr, Instagram or Facebook with updates of your recovery, intake and body weight because those things could not be further from your mind.
This is recovery. And let me tell you, it feels amazing.