Short-Term Pain, Long-Term Gain.
It's me again, Dolls, presenting yet another difficult, though valuable Shopaholic Blog Post. I believe that tough love is the best medicine a pretty Doll can buy. There were many moments over the years when I and others met my short-term pain with compassion, understanding and kindness... It was the easiest thing to do. But the medicine I was taking was cheap, quick relief, over-the-counter syrup. It took years of experiencing the same cycle before I began to notice patterns, discrepancies and ineffectiveness. In treating my short-term pain, we'd lost sight of how it was impacting me long-term. Upon reflection, I certainly wish that my future self gave me tough love in those seemingly insignificant moments of weakness and told me to suck it up. Because that was the medicine that truly worked with effectiveness, durability and strength.
I came home from work one day, exhausted, too hungry to feel hungry and crying because I assumed my parents had forgotten about dinner. They held me, hugged me and told me that we'd start dinner immediately. They said that all I had to do was go upstairs and wipe my mascara-stricken cheeks. With a loud, deafening bang, I dropped my handbag in the middle of the kitchen floor. I then hauled my bagless body up two flights of stairs. My parents couldn't believe my audacity when they'd been so selfless as to meet me with compassion despite their confusion. But what they didn't know, is that physically, I would've collapsed if I'd held that bag for just a moment longer. Moments like this, where I knew I didn't have the mental capacity to explain why I'd dropped that bag, led to fear, yelling, despair, horror and anxiety. The eating disorder is always lingering, preparing to pounce on an excuse not to eat. And it digs in its claws whenever the perfect excuse of confrontation arises. As I said, when meal times aren't discussed or when they're too early or too late, the eating disorder whispers in my ear until it begins to scream. I'm told that it's now 'too late' to eat, that it's 'not important' to eat and that nobody 'really cares' if I don't eat. In these moments, if I choose to listen to my eating disorder, either I have nothing at all and it triumphs, adding fuel to its fire and light to its torch or I eat something but the mental scrutiny is so loud that every mouthful feels like hell is sprawling through every vein within my body. In the short-term, if I were to choose to 'just do it', to do the opposite action and eat, things in the short-term would feel painful. As painful as the voice? Most likely. I'm not one to sugar-coat because you can't gummy-bear your way out of anorexia, Dolls. But you can do it with immense focus, strategy, awareness and that sickly sweet tough love I speak about. But if it's as painful as the voice that seems too cruel, destructive and relentless to exist, why would one choose to suffer short-term agony when they can just choose to not eat instead?
Time. Time is a construct created by humanity. Time is used for structure, convenience and ease. Do you want to know a secret, Dolls? I abuse time and in turn, time abuses me. I hate time. Time cripples me.
Time is my kryptonite.
There have been many little moments in my life when I've denied time's place in my world. In the short-term moments in time, where I choose to cast aside, ignore or procrastinate eating, the times when I want time the most, become the moments I cannot have. Eventually, comes that moment in time that I've anticipated. Eventually, comes my birthday. Eventually, comes Easter. Eventually, comes Christmas. But when those times come, I've used up my margin for error and in turn, I am denied the time I'd hoped to have. Instead, I spend the moments I'd once desired enduring every minute, hour and day, instead alone. I cannot share that precious time with the people I love and they cannot spend that precious time with me... Not in the way it was supposed to happen, anyway. But in those short-term and seemingly insignificant moments, I don't think about the long-term consequences. Not unless my goals are focused and I recognise that every little moment accumulates in time's score. Time, although I hate it, is a trustworthy and respectable friend. My trustworthy friend rewards me in the future when I'm loyal and attentive to them in the present. Time just wants to be adored. And if time isn't adored and instead is tallied by me, then time will tally me in return. Time never bats an eye. Time remembers. I've learnt that the long-term consequences of abusing time outweigh the short-term moments of time abusing me. Missing out on special occasions feels more taxing than chewing a detested mouthful, tasting tears with my bread and swallowing the final bite. Equally, in the short-term moments of time when my disappointed, heartbroken, hopeless family stare at me with tears in their eyes, desperate expressions stained on their faces and lips that quiver, I feel their melancholy like a bow and arrow to my chest. But in the short-term moments where I'm brave and bold despite the debilitating bully that bullies me in my head, I see proudness and pride in their eye smile lines, hope in the stature of their bodies and warmth radiating in their aura. In those moments, the torment feels manageable, the difficulty seems worthwhile and hope seems possible. So, Dolls, that is why I choose short-term agony. Because sometimes, a consequence is more hurtful than an action.
I trusted you, anorexia. How could you betray me so badly when I believed you so greatly? You told me it was too much food, you told me if I ate that then I was greedy, that x,y,z wasn't safe and that a minor addition would affect my body largely. I listened, I adhered to your every word and then I danced for hours, months and years with you in the dark. I thought we were lovers, you and me. I loved you, you bitch. I couldn't eat my birthday cake, I couldn't say 'cheers' to my mummy on her birthday, and I couldn't add an extra snack because I trusted the words you said more than the words of my parents and my friends.
But you didn't tell me all of the other things that I deserved to know. You didn't tell me how much weight I'd lose and how instead of relishing in it, I'd feel sick to my stomach when I saw the number on my scales. You didn't tell me how eating that thing didn't even maintain my weight, let alone increase it. You didn't tell me how my blood results could never lie and how I couldn't sweet talk my doctor the way you would sweet talk me. You didn't tell me how if I didn't eat, people loved me too much to let me die. You didn't tell me how yoghurt wasn't as scary as a nasogastric feeding tube pumping through my body. You didn't tell me how everything you said was a snippet of a tale and not the entire storybook. You missed every detail you knew that I would've wanted to hear. You did it on purpose. I know you did. Because although it hurts me to say, you weren't the friend I thought you were. We danced, we loved, we kissed but it was all done on a ground made from spiderwebs, strung together with your secrets and deceptions, dishonesty and greed and your neverending, malicious tales that made me bleed and bleed and bleed.
Shopaholics, my journey has been long and infinite and melancholic and blue but it's also born teachable moments, been inspirational to others and laced with endless love, always. My story is not me but my story has made me who I am. Nobody promised me a simple life, and that is why I can only hope that the lives of others will be more simple than mine through my writing, openness and willingness to try. It's okay to not win every short-term battle, but you cannot guarantee any long-term joy if you never try.
Kisses,
COS x
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