Every time I start to Write, I stop. Every time I do write I do sit down to write, I am reminded of how it become my first love. Writing was always my thing.I used to be able to fall deep into books as well. My imagination was strong. I used to write daily. I used to research, explore, and analyze. But I don’t anymore. And that bothers me.
Naturally, as a Pisces I am supposed to be creative, deep, analytical, emotional. It pains me to see how much I have digressed and disconnected from my soul. (I semi-joke about the zodiac sign part). I started this, what I am going to call, diary as a way to write without my hand hurting. Eventually as I aged my OCD worsened in regards to my handwriting. Handwriting always had to be perfect. So I stumbled on the internet. And then a couple months back, November or December I think, I said to myself “write again, please, especially as your move date to California came closer each day”. But… I didn’t. Why didn’t I.
Now I am writing this for me, not for you, bare that in mind. I feel as though, and rightly so, much of what is posted on the web is criticized, devalued, and misunderstood. Writing is an art. An art that looks different when compared. It’s so unique that how can we compare?
Anyways. I don’t think I even believe how difficult the last few months were. One aspect of mental illness that I am now lacking is empathy. Since recovery, two years ago, I have had a disconnected point of view. I’m not really sure when I became desensitize to it. Eventually my body forgot how to feel those things. Those emotions were closed. The emotions about wanting to die, feeling pathetic, hopeless and so, so dearly confused. I think today that if you just “believe you can” you will. And yes, that is true, but only partially.
I remember just wanting to change. I needed to help myself because after six years, I was proven to again and again that I am the only one who can bring myself out. I remembered my goal, move to California; live in LA. So I did it. I cried often during the transition period. In 2014 (oh my gosh, it has been three years…) I committed to recovery. Eventually 2 steps in became 10 steps, and then before my eyes I already took 100 steps. It came to a point where so many steps forward became “I can’t undo this hard work”. But, fuck, did I want to. When the jeans got tighter, when the butt became bigger, when the thighs expanded every single time I sat down, my gosh did I want to STOP and RUN back to the disorder (aka Abby).
I literally mean it when I tell you I put myself into God’s hands. Now, sorry but not sorry for bringing religion into this. I respect your opinion about religion and your faith. I just want to express how I did not have an ounce of strength left in me to fight the demon in my head. I apply this not just to the eating disorder, but to the depression, anxiety and OCD voices. All of it became so tiring.
So here I am today. June 12 2017. Hot damn if you asked me back in January what I expected life to look like in June, I could not tell you. I had NO idea. Was I going to find a job? Was I going to move across country without having a mental breakdown? Was it going to be hard and I’d go crying back to my parents? I had no clue of what June would look like. But, not it’s June. And I’m here. And I’m okay. Each day I become a bit more of an adult and it is fascinating of how this transition just happens.
I wished I had wrote it all down. What each day felt like. How in the beginning, me, Isabella with severe OCD, had gone routine-less for about 4 weeks. I lived in a hotel for 9 days, then a sublet for 15 days, then all of the sudden my first apartment. On my own. Completely on my own. In the second biggest city in America. Freshly recovered. Potentially trigger-able.
I did it. And while each day I am a bit upset I didn’t capture the moments as they happened, I tell myself it is okay. It is better to write when I am able to. Write what I can. Just because I don’t remember second by second doesn’t mean I can’t remember any of it.