The Afternoon I Chose to Live

Life-changing moments rarely materialize in an instant. They are often predicated by dozens of seemingly inconsequential moments or even other potentially life-changing revelations. To indeed be life-changing, a revelation must be put into action.

I’ve experienced many life changing revelations. Some I put into action right away, while others faded into the background. The revelations that faded didn’t disappear, rather they took a step back and waited for a catalyst.

Making the choice to live changed the course of my life forever. That day, that decision, that moment helped lead me to where I am today. Recovered.

That moment did not happen in a vacuum. There were many moments that led me there. That’s the thing about recovery work, we often can’t see how the little moments, the seemingly inconsequential decisions, lead to big change. That’s why patience is a key component of recovery.

THE MOMENT occurred on the afternoon of March 16, 2015. But prior to that moment, I did something I’d done off and on for over thirty years, I binged and purged. After the fleeting numbness passed and the shame set it, I berated myself up for doing something so destructive and harmful. I belittled myself for being so stupid and out of control. As I curled up in a fetal position on our family room couch, I told myself if I didn’t stop using those behaviors, the eating disorder would kill me.

 “The eating disorder will kill me.”

 “This eating disorder is killing me.”

   “I am letting this eating disorder kill me.”

“The eating disorder is killing me and I am letting it.” 

Rather than seek another escape from the pain, I let myself feel the heaviness of those thoughts. Through the pain I acknowledged that for the last fifteen years, especially since the birth of our first child in 2010, before every purge I wondered, “Is this the time it’s going to kill me?” And then did it anyway. I was so desperate for a momentary escape from the pain and suffering, I was willing to risk not seeing my kids grow up. I was willing to risk leaving my husband. I was willing to risk my life. 

As devastating as those realizations were, I am eternally grateful I allowed myself, the Ali I barely knew, to feel them.  Because when I sat there confronted with the fact that this disease would kill me and that for years I was willing to let it, I began to feel something deep and primal:

I didn’t want to die. But even more than that, I wanted to live.

It was a life-changing realization. And it mattered. But not as much as what I did next. I knew I couldn’t continue to do what I’d always done after a binge and purge episode; beat myself up and then try to convince myself, “I’m going to get my shit together tomorrow.” If I did, the next day I’d start a new restrictive eating plan, a new workout regimen and fantasize about how amazing my life would be when I lost weight, got control over food and looked perfect.

In over thirty-years of fantasizing and trying, that never happened. Ever. 

I had to do something different. So I gave myself permission to rest. I acknowledged that I had just done something violent to my body and needed to take care of it. I didn’t beat myself up anymore. I rested. I didn’t talk about what happened or the realization I’d made. I let the notion that I was going to do things differently this time sink in.  

Later, after nourishing my body and mind with an early dinner, I turned to the magical superpowers of television to keep my two and four-year old transfixed for a couple of hours while I searched for something I wasn’t sure existed:

A road to Recovered.