I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of failure recently. In all honesty, failure isn’t really something that I do. I genuinely don’t think that I’ve ever failed at anything. I’ve always been a straight A student (with the occasional B- which drives my inner perfectionist up a wall). I’ve always been naturally talented at anything that I’ve tried. I’ve always been accepted to everything that I’ve applied to. And that’s not to say that I don’t work hard for things. Because I definitely do. But I’m not an ostrich- I don’t have my head stuck in the sand. I know that I’ve had more than my fair share of dumb luck. But still, the concept of really truly failing at something is foreign to me.

Specifically, what has been consuming my thoughts lately is the concept of failing my ED. Because technically failing my ED is a good thing. A positive thing. Because it means that I’m failing at killing myself. And if I’m failing at killing myself, I’m succeeding in my recovery.

But here’s the thing. It still feels like failure. Every time I eat, with every stab of the fork, there’s a part of me that twinges with hurt. That feels the sting of inadequacy. The sharp pain of a defeat. And I have to consciously remind myself that this particular failure is good. Failing at my ED is something that I want to do.

Although it doesn’t always feel like it.

My ED is screaming at me. At every meal. Every time I think about food. It has never been so loud. My new meal plan has me incorporating foods that scare the hell out of me. Like peanut butter. And chips. And bread. And sauces. And eventually desert, but that terrifies me so much that we’re not even going to discuss it.

But even though it’s unspeakably hard, I’m still doing my absolute very best to follow my meal plan. I’ve put trust in my new nutritionist. She knows what she’s doing, and she knows what’s best for me. Because, honestly, I don’t anymore.

Because of this, my ED is spending a lot of time trying to convince me that because I’m currently failing at it, I was never really sick in the first place. Which I know isn’t true, if for no other reason than the barrage of medical professionals that I’ve had to see within the past six months. If I was never really sick, they all would’ve turned me away instead of making appointment after appointment with me. But if I was never really sick, that would mean that I don’t have to get better. That I don’t have to recover. Because I wasn’t sick to begin with.

But my ED is lying to me. I was sick. I still am. Even though I’m fighting like hell to recover, I’m not recovered yet. Not anywhere close.

My nutritionist said that the first few weeks of recovery are the hardest. They’re literal hell. But if you can get through the first few weeks, you can get through the rest of it.

So even though my ED is screaming the word failure at me, hopefully it’s a dying scream.

-X