braver than i’ve been

Sometimes all I want is a static moment, something I can put in my pocket and pull out as needed, to offer as evidence, explanation, truth–

here, see, this is what it is,
was,
it’s real,
you can see it right here.

Desperate sometimes for that static moment I can’t have, the next best thing is to be static myself, hold myself still through time, so I can still point and say, see, here, look at me, it’s real.

This is where the numbers come in. The counting, the rituals, this is why we are sometimes confused with ocd. We makes lists, patterns, pictures, we are precise, calculating, calculated. In some ways, I have always defied the stereotype–and I always mention this, it seemed important, how I didn’t do those things the other girls did–but in the end, I wasn’t that different. My rituals were limited, but I still counted. Added and subtracted and the outcome mattered.

And sometimes, it came out just right. And for a minute, everything was okay.

And sometimes, it comes out all wrong, and you cling to that too, as though it explains everything.

A few weeks ago, a new number appeared as I was hitting a breaking point, my body gone from fine print to bold, stating all is not well, and when it finally hit me, it was hard not to cling to it. When I don’t know how to explain, I want just that static moment to show you, two numbers and a picture and a doctor’s note; I think you’ll understand.

You probably won’t.

I learned a long time ago the failings of that sort of communication, too much is lost in translation, you make assumptions, I get flustered. It’s not enough.

But then, it’s not about you, either. It’s about my own inability to keep real real, and the faster it changes, the more I think I must have just imagined it, it could not have been what I thought it was, what they said it was; we are all so dramatic.

And committed, committed to my loves and my life and sticking around, I need the real to stay real. I need to figure out how to let it be its truth while letting it change, how to let that real and this real coexist. Remember how to surrender to movement.

There is so much irony here. I am a dancer, and the ache when I’m away is almost unbearable, I have to stifle it out or it feels like part of me is dying. And I have been away for so long, trying to untangle this mess. I keep shifting from movement to static to movement to static, and there is so much irony here, that I am so threatened by what (one of the things) I want most.

I am not so threatened by movement when I’m not working through disbelief. Mine or yours, but especially mine. Believing is the hard part.

In an interview last week, a friend said something to the effect of, “the thing is, eating disorders are so big, they are this massive coping skill, it gets in everything. So then, when we think about recovery, the solution needs to be as big, bigger; it needs to take up as much space as the eating disorder to be able to fill those needs. And we live in a world where we are not encouraged to take up a lot of space, we are given a limited amount of room.”

There are connections here, between what’s real and the space we give it, how to let go of static, not need it anymore. Because my eating disorder (which ultimately meant everything behind it) has never been real enough. That’s a defining characteristic of the disorder– the conviction that you don’t have it, or that even if you do, that it’s not bad enough or serious enough or something enough to count– yes, but also, the difficulty of believing in the reasons you needed it, that those hurts were, are, bad enough or serious enough or real enough to count.

We tell ourselves–I tell myself– if it’s not real, it doesn’t need any space. But it takes up all this space anyway, because at least in my case, real doesn’t stop being real even if I have trouble holding on to it.

And how then to give space to healing something you so adamantly wish were not taking up so room, you push aside its existence? Suddenly it feels like you’re losing all this time, energy, space; self care feels like this massive imposition. When really, you lost that time and energy and space ages ago; we sooner pretend never to have had it at all than to look at where it’s gone, it’s easier. Easier than recognizing the loss, easier than asking yourself:

How much space are you willing to take up?

Put aside permission, put aside what we’re given, that we ought to get more, that it shouldn’t have to be a fight, but will be– put all that aside for a moment–

How much space are you willing to take up?

It is not just about demanding our share, but– how much space are you willing to hold?

How much are you willing to take in, to give yourself?

It feels old and trite and cliche, like too many self help books and talk shows, but it’s a serious question. We all know the rhetoric, but when it comes down to it, I still hate talking in terms of deserve, would rather walk in circles around real with my back turned. I don’t know how to answer these questions.

I see pieces of these questions, pieces of the answers all over the place, more places than I can think to link at 2:30 in the morning.

I don’t know how to answer these questions, only that I want to. I am tired of wishing nonexistence and holding so, so still when I can’t. I want to be willing to take up more space, to be willing to prioritize the things I need over what is expected of me. I want back in to movement. I want to be braver than I’ve been.

Advertisement