{change?}

I'm gonna be honest. 2016 has been less than fantastic so far.

Partly due to things I had no control over, partly due God trying to teach me lessons and me ignoring them, and partly just due to the fact that life rarely goes according to plan. And, partly, because eating disorders are hard to shake, and even though you may think you've recovered, it's not always that simple.

And it's all fine and well to say 'fall seven times, stand up eight', but what do you do when you've tried everything in your power to get better, and yet, somehow, keep falling down?

So, between one thing and another, I wound up in church this morning nursing my coffee and a splitting headache, along with a profound sense of 'utterly hopeless'.

The sermon this morning, though, grabbed my attention from the beginning.

See, it was on the life of Paul, and how God often uses the biggest messes for His greatest glory. Because your past doesn't make you hopeless, and there is always redemption at the feet of Jesus. The bigger the mess before Christ, the more amazing His grace.

"Can anyone, regardless of their past, experience the life change and power of the Grace of God?", my pastor asked. "The answer of the Bible", he continued, "is a resounding YES".

And I desperately needed that reminder....because just that morning, I'd worried aloud to a friend, 'what if I never get better?' What if i struggle with this eating disorder my whole life long?

I was truthfully reminded that whether or not I get 'better', God will use the things I've gone through for His glory, but....that's small consolation when you look down the tunneled years and all you see is darkness.

But, then the sermon started hitting closer to home...if that was even possible.

He went on to say that not only are we never to write off anyone as 'unreachable' (along the lines of the story of Paul), because God can change anyone...but... God also wants to change us, too... change is possible... but we can't change ourselves.

"Everyone wants to change something about themselves"

....i know I do. thinner, taller, prettier, smarter...the list goes on endlessly.

"Jesus wants to change you from within. He's fine with your outside. He wants to change you inside"

.......oh......because i've been feverishly trying to change the outside, make it all look good, even if perhaps i'm not fully healed on the inside.

"We can work all we want on trying to get the outside in shape, but He wants to get the inside in shape, and He promises to change you if you'll only let him"

the phrase, I believe he used, and I'm not sure where he got it, but it struck a chord with me, was "surrender your rebel will to His amazing love"...perhaps it hit me because I'm just about that stubborn.

rebel will, indeed.

He beautifully pointed out exactly what was wrong, and what I keep forgetting.

I can't do it in my own strength. 

I can't recover alone. 

Which, to be honest, I hate, because of how fiercely independent I am, but if this is gonna work, and if this is gonna last, then I need God to change me. I need Him to do His work in me, and stop trying so hard on my own.

I need to learn to ask for help - both from Him and others.

Because, it's true. I keep trying and trying and falling down because I keep trying to do it all in my own strength. But....I'm not the one who can change me. I can make it all look good on the outside, but in order to truly heal, God has to change me on the inside.

And I'm not naive enough to think that it will happen in a bolt of lightening flash and I'll never struggle again, but...He is the one who began His good work in me, after all, and He has promised that He will complete it - in His timing. Not mine.

Never mine.

But then again, perhaps the burden of trying to be better was never mine to begin with either. Maybe that can go to Him, and I can just live in His power not my own....

even that'd be a change.

of Atlas at last

This is slightly embarrassing, but, when I was little, some of my favorite heroes were the Greek gods and goddesses and titans - the heroes of the ancients.

(I still haven't quite outgrown them...nor do I think I ever will)

Never mind that I knew they weren't real. They were mesmerizing, and I loved them. I love them still. I love the lessons I've learned from them, and the hours of companionship they provided..

Artemis.... Athena.... Theseus.... Achilles..... Persephone ....Hades.....

...Atlas.

Oh, Atlas. I particularly adored Atlas....Atlas, the titan....Atlas, the one who had no choice but to be strong....the one who silently carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders...

An old teacher of mine once looked into my soul and told me that I had the eyes of Atlas. The eyes of one too young too strong, who carries more than is her load to bear, and insists on bearing it alone.

And I have spent years dying to know his secret.

What is the secret of Atlas? How does one carry the weight of so much pain and sorrow and not drown - not break?

"Teach me how to be strong", I have begged God in vain, night after night, staring up at the stars, unable again to cope with the burdens I bear, both my own and others'. 

It sounds kind of silly to ask that of Him, 'teach me how to be strong on my own', but then again, depending on anyone - even God - has never been something I've been particularly good at. 

Atlas carried the weight of all that he had to, and he was strong. Why cannot I be the same way? Why can't I be stronger than breaking?  Because I am not strong, and I regularly break, and I will drain myself beyond the point of utter and absolute breaking, on no food and no sleep in order to prove to myself that I can handle it. 

I will be strong or die trying, and why, oh, why, can't I be strong on my own without coming apart at the seams?

I don't want to - I refuse to - be a burden, so I will bear others', hoping to find in them expiation for all the times I have unwittingly, needlessly, thoughtlessly burdened others with my own woes.

Sometimes I can manage it. But over the past few weeks, I've felt myself drowning. Between cyber bullying, my eating disorder flaring up, street harassment, fights both at work and at home, people telling me I was fat, and endless other drama coupled with people I felt responsible to support, I was trying to be strong for everyone else, and, as usually happens, there was no one to be strong for me.

And as for the ones who wanted to be there for me, I refused to let them, slipping back into old habits, lulling myself into numbness just to cope.

And Atlas, my role model of so many years, suddenly appeared in a song I had never heard before - a song that comes around and arrests me from line one.

'I will be strong, said Atlas to the earth'

(yes. yes. I will be strong, and I will not break, even when I am breaking, I will not break...)

but the song then takes a drastic turn.

'Atlas tried to carry all the weight of the world but it broke him like he knew it would.'

(oh)

'We're not gods of the universe, we are only human.
We're not gods of the universe, we are only human'

(i am still convinced that little bit is because God knew I needed to hear that twice)

'So let's stop trying to be superheroes now,
And freedom will come when you lay it down'

(lay it down? lay what down?.....lay.....wait...Atlas...lay it down.)

And it suddenly hits me, along with the tears.

Lay it down.

Lay down trying to be strong for everyone else all the time. Lay down the weight of the pain of all the worlds inside and around me. Lay down the mask, having to keep it all together.

Lay down starving into numbness beyond exhaustion so that their pain doesn't become yours - instead, take their pain and their burdens and all of your own, and lay them down at the feet of Jesus.

Because otherwise, I'll just keep repeating this cycle of overwhelming myself with other people's struggles, in addition to my own, and forgetting that Atlas' secret isn't that he stayed strong all the time - Atlas' secret is that he couldn't.

Atlas' secret is that he broke. 

And when Hercules came, he was beyond endurance

And the hero took pity on the Titan and built the Pillars of Hercules.*

And Atlas folded up his cloak.

And together they walked down the mountain of God.

'We could be glorious if we'd just give up being gods'

Freedom will come when you lay it down.

Lay it down.

<3

(*a small note: yes, I'm aware that most variations of the story of Hercules and Atlas depict Hercules as either having: a. built the pillars of Hercules on the way to fight Geryon in a different labor altogether.. or b. splitting the mountain Atlas, who has by this time been turned to stone by Perseus, thereby creating the pillars... but I stumbled across this version in an old old book many years ago, and it's my favorite)

A Day in the Life of a Girl...

If you'd seen me open the door to the bathroom today, you would have thought nothing of it. Just another smiling college kid, working on your floor, fumbling with the keylock on the doorknob. Right? No biggie. You likely walked right past without a second thought, on your way to the elevator around the corner.

What you didn't see, however, but what you would have seen had you been able to look through the door, might have surprised you. You would have seen me close the door and sag against it, gripping the doorknob to keep it closed from the inside. You would have seen me crumple to the ground, tears spilling onto my cheeks, shaking, and on the verge of a panic attack.

It had been one of those mornings. The ones I dread, the ones that panic me, the ones I hate.... First, the corner store with mom, where I was, in succession: stripped bare and devoured by the gaze of two guys standing by the counter as they nudged each other and leered, startled and scared by another guy who'd snuck up behind me to make kissy noises in my ear, other various harassment, and finally, catcalled, whistled at, and called certain unprintable names as mom and I left and got into the car.

It didn't stop when I got into work, though. The guy who held the door eyed me with a "fuck, baby", and a nasty leer. Then, I got sent to the deli/newsstore where we get breakfast, and overheard the deli guy - who's been hitting on me for weeks, and who I told to stop last week - tell the lady who works with him, that if he was a millionaire, "I'd get out of here, and you know who I'd take with me?..I'd take her" (me). Sounds innocuous, right? You didn't see his face. You also haven't seen the way he looks at me on a regular basis, and you probably didn't know how much those looks scare me, either.

I made it back to work, only to realize that I had to go back to the store for creamer. So, I hid in the bathroom, fighting a panic attack, until I had composed myself enough to go, get the creamer, avoid the deli guy, and rush back to the safety of my office. And perhaps you will understand why, later that day, upon finding myself in an elevator with a stranger who looked at me funny, I glared at him, and informed him that, "you touch me, and I swear I'll kill you"...perhaps not the wisest course of action, but, hey.

Now, I wish I could say that this was a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of a thing that never happens, and is astonishing to me. But, if I'm honest, it happens. It happens a lot. Not always this degree in the course of a single morning, but, in the two and a half (or s0) months that I've been working there, I have yet to make a single errand run without at least one person hitting on me, catcalling me, or ogling and leering. And the events I've described are far from the worst that's ever happened.

And there's a pervading misconception which I've come across over the past few weeks and months, which is utterly and completely false.

Guys, hitting on someone is not a compliment.

Again. Say it with me.

Hitting. On. Someone. Is. Not. A. Compliment. Harassment. Is. Never. Okay.

Catcalling is not a compliment. Checking me out does not make me feel flattered. The guys who call me "slut" or "whore" or "cunt" or undress me with your eyes (yes, I can tell...) only make me loathe and fear them.

And any man who does that...actually, no. Scrap that. Because any male who catcalls a girl, ogles and leers at her, slaps her butt as she walks past, or anything else inappropriate is not a man. No true man would ever do that.... but anyone who does? I am fully convinced that that is a qualification for 'scum of the earth'.

I mean, imagine if the girl you were hitting on was your sister, your mother, your daughter. How would you feel about men looking at her the way you think it's okay to look at me? How would you feel about strangers calling her unspeakable names, touching her, following her around?

That is not flattering. It is violating. It is panic-inducing, and it is just wrong. It makes me feel vulnerable, violated, hurt, dirty, terrified, and it is oftentimes all I can do to keep from breaking into an all-out run to escape.

And it's not just me, either. Ask the girls you know. Heck, ask the LGBT kids you know! Most women know exactly what I'm talking about. I mean, for crying out loud, Uptown Funk, in real life, isn't cool. It's creepy!  And no, it doesn't depend on the kind of clothes you're wearing. I am never, repeat, never asking for it. I have literally worn everything from long skirts to baggy pants to glasses and no makeup, and it still happens.

Street harassment is still a thing. And, it mostly happens to women. Good gosh, I don't walk up to you and be like "nice dick". You wouldn't walk up to another man, a total stranger, and tell him he has a nice dick. Yet somehow it's perfectly acceptable in your mind to leer at me and tell me my "ass" is "fuckable". What the actual heck!? You don't go around grabbing other guys' junk. So why's it okay to grab my butt? Or touch my chest? *hint: it's not*

Be a man! If you like me, be nice to me, hold doors (without slapping my butt as I walk through!)...there are other ways to give a compliment. If you think I'm pretty, then, for goodness' sake, man up and tell me in an un-offensive way. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut! If you like me, then tell me that, and, if I say no, respect me enough to take 'no' for an answer

I met an man last weekend, who intrigued me. An elderly gentleman, he entertained me for quite a bit with stories of his country upbringing. But one story in particular delighted me, hence his designation as a 'man' in my mind. He mentioned that he used to get into fights at the bar all the time as a young man, but, not for the reasons I'd thought.

In his words, "I'd see a guy hitting on a lady, and if she didn't want to be bothered, I'd go over, tap him on the shoulder, and say 'buddy, why don't you leave the lady alone, finish your drink and go on home?', and he'd want to know, 'well, who's gonna make me?', so I'd ask him 'You wanna mess up the bar, or should we go out in the parking lot?' and I wound up in a fair number of fights because of it".

Honestly, that's where it's at. With that one little anecdote, he just made himself my hero.

And I really wish there were more like him.  

I mean, screw even respecting me as a woman.

How about just, at basic, respecting me as another human being?

Could we just get there? Because even that would be a huge accomplishment.

Of Standing Men

An old man sits at a prison table, behind bars, under heavy guard. His worn blue eyes are pensive, thoughtfully fixed on the man standing opposite. This man, younger but not quite young, wears a look of intense worry. He seems burdened with some momentous weight.

But, the old man is speaking, telling a story. He tells the younger man that he reminds him of a friend of his father's, who used to come around when the old man was a boy. This friend of his father's, he said, was pointed out to him by his father, who told him, as a young boy, to watch that man. For twenty years his father's friend had done nothing at all remarkable. Yet still his father said, 'watch that man'. So the boy watched him. And one night, their house was overrun with border guards.

In the old man's words, 'This man, my father's friend was beaten. Every time they hit him, he stood back up again. So they hit him harder. Still he got back up to his feet. I think because of that they let him live.'

The younger man's brow furrows in confusion. 'And I remind you of this man?'

Nodding slowly, the old man replies, 'Standing man.' His eyes unfocus, reaching deep into the past. 'Standing man'.

Now, lest you think that I concocted this all in my own brain...I assure you it was all from Spielberg's latest film, Bridge of Spies. The old man is an alleged Soviet spy, while the younger man is his lawyer. Originally arranged as a farce of a trial for positive PR, it turns into far more when an American spy is captured by the Soviets and the task of exchanging the two falls to the old man's lawyer.

And....I must admit, I've always been in love with the idea of a standing man. I just didn't have the words for it until now. It takes a certain kind of strength - a different level of courage - to stand back up, repeatedly, undauntedly, knowing that you will only be knocked down again and harder.

But what makes a 'standing man'? 

I've been puzzling over it all day, and I think I finally understand.

What makes him remarkable is that...he wasn't a hero. His whole life was spent standing quietly in the shadows. He wasn't some grand person. He had done 'nothing remarkable for 20 years'. And yet, when the time came, when it really mattered - he alone stood.

If he had been a hero, then it wouldn't have been remarkable. If he had been known for deeds of greatness.....But the courage of ordinary men....

See, one does not always have to be great to do great things, or to inspire others. One does not have to be a hero all the time. One simply has to stand back up, over and over and over again. To quietly stand. To never give in, never give up, never bow, never surrender. 

'I think it was because of that that they let him live'. 

And here we come to the deepest reason that I can't let go of this concept. Because I want so desperately to believe that if I don't bow, if I get back up again and again and again, even though it seems that every single time I do, I am knocked down harder and more violently than before, that perhaps, someday, the darkness might let me live. 

But, in the meantime....?

I stand. 

For The Nights When I Want to Relapse

There are days when recovery is...well, not easy, but easier. There are days when I am happy and carefree and secure, when I am able to put the past behind me and drown out the voices in my head with His truth

But other days?

Other days, my brain seems stuck on a loop, incessantly asking what good is recovery!? what use is it, if I'll always to some degree want this? And even if I do manage to get free, who would ever want me with my past?

And I know He mends with gold. I know that in His hands, the brokenness is beautiful, but sometimes I feel only broken and not beautiful at all.

Like, will I ever be free? Truly free? Does it matter if I cave if I'll always struggle with this?

Depression screams hopelessness at me. The devil whispers condemnation in one ear, and shame in the other. And I want nothing more than to find a small sharp blade and watch as the blood runs red. Or overdose myself into oblivion. Or run back to everything I'm ashamed of in a futile effort to hide the pain.

And I know, I know that that will accomplish nothing, save drag me yet further into everything I must escape from. But there are still nights where the pull to darkness is oh so strong, and I grow weary of pressing on when all around me seems hopeless.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The sort of night where I climb out onto the roof, curl up, and sob my sorrows to the stars because they are too great for me to hold, and in the stillness of the aftermath, when I am shaken with weeping and drained to the core, the demons taunt and jeer, throwing my failures in my face and pulling me right back down again.

But I've learned that, it isn't what I do when life is sunshiney and cheerful that counts half so much as what I do the nights during which I cannot drag my weary soul anymore through this worn and tattered life.

So, tonight, like so many nights before it, and, probably, for many more nights after it, I shall crawl into bed, plug in my headphones, turn up the music, and let it carry me away.

5 Reasons Why People Quit Recovery.

So, you finally did it. You had your breakthrough, you hit rock bottom, realized you couldn't live like this anymore, and decided it was time to get better. It was time to recover. No turning back, right? And for a while, things started to look up. Maybe your surroundings hadn't changed, but you were different, determined.

....Until three months down the road, and you find yourself sobbing in a corner, relapsed, or considering it, and on the verge of quitting 'this recovery thing' altogether.

See, recovery is a tricky topic. It's one thing to decide that you want to get better, but quite another thing to follow through on that, and a separate thing altogether to actually see the process through to the end.

For anyone recovering from an addiction of any sort, self harm, eating disorder, or even mental illness, I'd like to share five reasons that I've discovered, on my own journey, as to why we are inclined to quit recovery, and perhaps also offer some tips, both for anyone struggling, and for those who help them

1. Lack of Support. 

This is the most important and my least favorite aspect of recovery. I can't say this enough. Support is vital. God didn't create us to live life alone. Heck, in the perfect world He created, the only thing He said was not good was 'to be alone'. I'm far too independent and far too stubborn for my own good - as my friends will readily tell you - but, harsh as it sounds, people need other people. People who are struggling especially need other people. You need healthy people. People who will lift you up, hold you accountable, speak truth into your life, and point you towards God. 

My advice then, if you're struggling, would be to talk to your friends. Talk to a counselor. Talk to someone. Find someone. Find a community. I would love to think that I'm competent on my own, that somehow, I can independently handle my problems, but truth is, I'm not, and neither are you. And bottling it all up, holding it all in, only means it will come out in other, destructive ways.

If you're friends with someone who is recovering, an important thing to remember is that, in recovery, they need your love and care and support and encouragement and understanding more than they did when they were sick! Because now, instead of drowning or suppressing their sorrows, they're trying to work through them, and need extra support. Not less. Talk to them about things other than their struggles, ask how they are, check up on them, make sure they know they're wanted and not just put up with. "Better" doesn't mean "well", and oftentimes friends, while they may not stop caring, do stop expressing that care once they hear the word "recovery".

And believe me, I know how taxing it can be to help someone who's struggling, which is why my second point is essential. 

2. Trying To Do It All In Your Own Strength

Along the lines of the previous reason, while we desperately need other people, we also desperately need God. We need His support, His promises, His steadfast and unfailing love, His shelter, and we need to run to Him for our refuge when life gets too overwhelming. The times I've become the most overwhelmed, and wanted to quit the most, were the times that I wasn't relying on God, wasn't talking to my friends, and generally, trying to go it alone. 

Talk to God. As the Psalmist says, 'pour out your heart before Him, for God is a refuge for us'. (Psalm 62...easily one of my favorite chapters ever, of all time). There will be times when people can't be there for you. He always is. And the amazing thing about God, I'm learning, is that while people can't always handle the depth of emotion we sometimes feel, He can. He'll take it all - the anger, the fear, the hatred, the pain, the sadness - He can handle it. He takes it, and He holds me. 

This goes for everyone, across the board - whether you're recovering, or just friends with someone who is recovering. You can't solve the other person's problems. Talk to Jesus. I can't solve my own problems. So I will talk to Jesus too, and He gives us the hope and strength to carry on. One of the most important things you can do for someone who is recovering, second only to just being there for them with love and compassion and understanding, is pointing them back to the true Healer, our only Refuge, who is Jesus. 

3. You Didn't Really Have A Breakthrough

I've had several 'false starts'. At least, that's what I call them. A false start is when your emotions are touched, but your heart really hasn't changed. Kinda like Dieppe vs. Normandy, for all you war history people. You emotionally decide that you should get better, but you don't engage your will. Without a conscious decision to recover, and the willpower to see it through, recovery will forever remain an elusive phantom, taunting you, yet always out of reach.

As a good friend loves to remind me, it's all about the choice. You must make the hard decision to recover. In one of my favorite musicals, (Next to Normal), there's a scene where the main character is discussing her life with her psychiatrist, and he tells her to "make up your mind you can live at last, make up your mind to be fully alive...make up your mind you are strong enough...make up your mind to be well!". You must choose.

Honestly, if you're on the other end of this, and not the one choosing, I have little advice for you on this one apart from...pray. Pray that God would show his power, pray that they will make up their mind, and then consistently remind them that recovery is a choice, they can decide, they have the power to choose that this is not how their story will end.

4. The Environment Hasn't Changed

Here I must make a caveat. It isn't always possible for the environment to change, and I realize that. There are situations where, you must choose recovery, knowing that the situation won't, in all likelihood, change, and the only thing different is you. Sometimes it is possible for the entire situation to change completely - which is incredible - but sometimes it isn't.

However, there are always factors that are within your control. Don't choose the bar as a place to meet up with friends. Throw away the lighters and blades. Toss the cigarettes. Pour the alcohol down the drain, and then shred your liquor store points cards. Make a meal plan and have people hold you accountable for eating. Take your medication. Talk to your counselor. Don't hang out with negative influences, which might mean cutting some toxic people out of your life. There's almost always something you can do, and it's worth it in order to get well.

And for those who help? Sometimes, taking away the blade, knocking the cigarette or bottle out of someone's hand, putting a plate of food in front of them and insisting that they eat...can make a much bigger difference than you realize. Sometimes just getting them out of their situation, if only for a few hours, can be one of the best things for them.

But...sometimes, and I say this with great deliberation......you need to get other people involved in order for the situation to change, and that person to get well. In some cases that's calling CPS. In others, it's telling someone who can either get that person professional help, or get them out of that situation, what's really going on. This I say with the additional caveat that this is not to be used lightly, without much prayer, and only as a very last resort.

5. Optimism/Impatience

Last but not least, optimism kills....Now, I grew up on stories of people who prayed and were instantly healed, junkies who received the Holy Spirit and never even wanted drugs again, so I still struggle with this. I want to be better now, and it took me awhile to realize that, just because I've had my breakthrough doesn't mean that life is going to be easy. Matter of fact, it's gotten harder. Recovery isn't easy, and it doesn't happen overnight. And if you think that just because you've had your breakthrough, now you won't struggle, then I've got news for you. Life doesn't work that way. Recovery doesn't work that way, but strength is built through struggle.

There are few things that kill the desire to recover quicker than the realization that recovery is about a thousand times harder than destroying yourself. And if you don't make the decision to recover with that in mind, then, instead of being prepared for the hard times when they come - because they will come, and you will want to quit far more and often than you ever dreamed you would - then, when the dark times come, you will quit. Because you weren't prepared. Plus, if you're naturally impatient like me, the fact that recovery is a journey and a process, not an overnight kind of a deal, will take some learning.

For the rest of you, much as I may have hated it at the time, I am deeply grateful to those who kept my feet on the ground, and reminded me that my breakthrough was, to borrow yet another war metaphor, the Battle of Saratoga, and not Yorktown. Encouragement is so important, but to allow someone you care about to fool themselves into believing that they've been cured overnight, or that recovery will be a snap, does more harm than good.

All that to say. This is in no way an exhaustive list, but if you, like me, want to quit recovery at times, or if you're at a loss for what to do with a friend who has either relapsed, or given up altogether, then I hope this proves useful to you.

As Winston Churchill, a man who knew all too well how to fight against impossible odds, once said, "Never give in. Never. Never. Never."

Never give in, never give up. Keep on keeping on. Keep fighting. Stay strong. Chin up. You got this, and, more importantly, God's got you.

To quote C. S. Lewis, "Courage, child." Both for the one in recovery, and the one helping, "you have chosen the roughest road, but it goes straight to the hilltops" (John Buchanan).

So never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, quit, give up, or lay down and die.

Never. 

They Love Me More When I'm Broken..Don't They?

So, today I'm hopping back on the soapbox because I've noticed an interesting trend lately, and I rather hate it. 

I don't know why - maybe it's human nature - but as soon as people hear the word "better", they automatically assume "well".

And, for the record, better does not mean well. 

I was better - I was so much better - after camp. I trusted God, my friends, my family, heck, my life!

So how did I wind up, three months later, drowning under the screams that everyone would be far better off if I were dead? 

Fall Out Boy captures it pretty well. 

"My heart is like a stallion, they love it more when it's broken". 

And, I've realized it's true. The sad awful reality, and part of why I loathe my depression as much as I do, is that, while, yes, I needed you when I was cutting, burning, overdosing, purging, starving...I needed you to point me to the light, and remind me that things get better....I need you far more when I'm not harming, starving, overdosing, purging, etc. 

Because, before, if life got overwhelming, I at least had my old destructive habits to run back to! I often wouldn't even talk to you until after I'd cut, burned, overdosed...

I passionately believe that it is the power of love - God's and people's - that alone can save someone who is hurt and hurting. 

But, I've also come to wonder if, the reason so many people 'fail' at recovery, is because, as soon as their friends, relatives, etc hear the words 'recovery' or 'better', they...don't stop caring...but perhaps stop expressing that care. 

And much as it pains me to admit it - for several reasons, not the least of which, is that it sounds awfully selfish - I need your love, I need your care, I need your support and encouragement and affirmation more in recovery than I ever did when I was sick! 

Because, like it or not, recovery sucks. It's much more difficult than destroying myself, for sure, and if all your gentleness disappears with my announcement that I'm 'better', then, instead of being able to turn to you with the small things before they become big things, I'll hold them all in for fear of bothering you, and then, when I finally do explode, it won't be pretty. 

If you used to actually seem like you cared about me while I was destroying myself, and then, now, take about fifteen giant steps back, what am I supposed to think? 

If you don't engage on topics other than how much I really want to give up, then I'll not go to you when I do, and if I do, I'll hate myself for going to you, and before long, I'll be convinced that you wouldn't care if I were dead, either, because nothing makes me feel like a burden faster than if you only talk to me, only care, when I'm falling apart! 

And I hate, hate, hate, how abominably selfish that sounds, and I know that part of it is absolutely my fault for being as stubborn as I am, and how firmly I refuse sometimes to lean on anyone else, but if you only love me when I'm breaking, and spend the rest of your time trying to distance yourself from me on all social media, pretending I don't exist, and ignoring my texts.... 

I can absolutely see why 'lack of support' is listed as number 1 under reasons for failed recovery. 

And I don't want to fail this time. I've failed far too many times, far too much, Nor is this an attempt to blame anyone. I take full responsibility for the times I've caved, but, by the same token, if it has taken me this long to learn to trust my friends' love and care, and then, almost all the outward signs of it disappear? 

I don't know. 

There's got to be a better way. 

There just has to.