When I heard the recommendation that I needed residential level treatment my heart broke. I was going to have to leave my internship, take an academic leave from school, move down to Florida, leave my friends and family, be forced to eat, have my cell phone and razors taken away (two very important items), and have to face my greatest fears. The news didn't sit well with me. In fact, it threw me into a downward spiral. I truly hit rock bottom the couple days between the recommendation and my flight, giving up eating entirely. It was a sick and twisted notion that "I wasn't sick enough to be going to residential treatment; I wasn't thin enough" so I needed to make myself have a reason, I needed to be sick enough. Typing these thoughts hurts; it's embarrassing. It's hard to come to terms with the fact that I let myself get to that point, that my brain was so sick that it could think things like that. Nonetheless, I thought residential was going to be the end of my happiness in life, the end of living "for Olivia."

Ask me now, over two months later how I feel about my time in residential and I'll tell you it saved my life. It was the most difficult thing I ever had to do but it changed and saved my life. As much as my ED-stricken brain and body hated it, I don't know where I'd be without the intensity of the program. Fast forward though, to today, October 6. I've been in Charlotte at the day program for almost two weeks and honestly, I miss residential. Charlotte isn't my home; I'm from Boone, NC. Most people discharge residential and find a day program in their hometown, however, since Boone is so rural, Charlotte is the closest one. I currently spend my week days in Charlotte and weekends in Boone. It's a painful transition. The weekends feel so normal, so happy, and I feel like I'm right where I'm supposed to be but then Sunday evening I'm making the drive back down to my home away from home. I spend weeks struggling because I don't have a community, I don't have the hobbies (my hobbies are to be outside, go hiking, biking, yoga, etc. and I'm currently still on exercise restriction), and I don't have the cool mountain air to refresh me every morning. I was talking to a friend of mine in my day program and realized that in residential I did have a community, I did have activities, and I had the warm Florida sun to refresh me. In Charlotte, I feel like I'm just going through the motions every day: go to the program, come home and bide my time until the next day can start. Hence, why residential spoiled me.

It's also been difficult trying to find where I fit back into life. It's like life went on and I was put on pause. Everything from clothes shopping to driving feels foreign now. I feel like people watch me when I eat and judge me when I struggle, but at the same time are too cautious. I feel like my eating disorder is a white elephant in the middle of the room sometimes and it's painful. It hurts me when I sit down to a meal and try not to look like I'm forcing myself to take every last bite. It hurts when I'm clothes shopping and I don't feel comfortable in the sizing so I have to ask for help. It hurts when someone asks if I want to go grab a snack or come back for pizza and I'm terrified to say yes and terrified to say no. ***I know this probably sounds incredibly selfish to be writing but it's reality for me. I don't know how I'm supposed to interact with society again now that I'm progressing in recovery. I know people want to see me doing well, and sometimes I am, but other times it's too difficult to force. I know this blog post may seem rather depressing and I apologize but this is where I'm at and I need you to know recovery isn't linear. Leaving residential doesn't mean life is going to be sunshine and rainbows because "you're fixed." Residential spoiled me and it's as simple as that.

However, in my attempt to try and see the positives, I heard a quote the other day that said: "No one person is an island." In fact, it's a quote from John Donne, an English poet from the 1600's. It expresses the idea that human beings do badly when isolated from others and need to be part of a community in order to thrive. This was redeeming in two ways. 1) it helps validate the feelings of despair when I'm isolated in Charlotte, almost home but still so far away, and 2) it encourages me to reach out for help in my times of struggle. As I've said before in my blogs, I am incredibly independent so the idea of needing others is a difficult place to be in. Hence the feelings of embarrassment, hurt, shame, and guilt. It's an entirely internal selfish desire to think I can do this alone, to think I can have a linear recovery, to tell myself that there's no room for failure and mistakes. I'm learning to take recovery one day at a time and live in the moments I'm blessed with, rather than worrying and focusing on the future. While yes, I still struggle with some meals, shy away from mirrors because I'm not entirely comfortable in my body, and beg my nutritionist to let me start yoga again, I'm accepting these challenges because nothing worth having comes easily.