The mind, he said, the tip of his pen drumming against his temple, likes to be in control. Whenever it can’t control external things, this time he places his pen down and gestures with a wave of his right hand, it tries to control from the inside.
I was 19 in a counselor’s office, and for the first time in my life, my bulimia made sense. I went to the office frazzled; I had just lost two friends at the time, and I was eating too much, exercising too heavily, and excusing myself to the bathroom after every meal to purge. I wasn’t sure why my behaviour from high school was cropping up, only this time I wasn’t starving myself to death. I didn’t want to worry my mum, again, you see. So I tried to be more subtle.
And there I understood. But I never came back.
Four years later I am in front of a therapist. She is pregnant, and is looking at me through kind eyes.
I tell her about my panic attacks, my cold sweats, my inability to sleep. I cry as I speak.
She tells me I have mild anxiety. That made sense to me.
But I never came back.
A year later I knock on the door of a psychiatrist. The third professional in 5 years.
She sits me down, turns the clock around, and lets me speak. The wind howls and the rain falls, and still she lets me speak. I tell her about my self-harm, I show the scars on my arm. I tell her I have been working, but that I haven’t been to work.
I tell her that I have been sleeping 14 hours a day.
That I haven’t seen my family in weeks because that would entail leaving the house.
That it’s been a while since I’ve written anything down.
She told me what she thought, and she said in words that resonate with me until today, You will come back in two weeks, whether or not you feel the same way. You will come back. And of course I said yes, I will, but it was only when I was halfway home that I committed to return.
Maybe the road to healing isn’t paved with markers of growth, maybe it’s rocky roads and uneven paths. Maybe the road to healing isn’t so much knowing where you are. Maybe it’s about going through the path again and again, whether you’re happy or sad, and learning its curves and crookedness.
I’m not sure, but what’s certain is I’ll go back in two weeks. Maybe the road will make much more sense. Maybe it won’t yet.
But maybe, just maybe, I’m on the road to healing.
Of perpetual finds 