I get told quite a bit how courageous I am, how strong I have to be to fight this disease that has been trying to kill me these last few years, and it leaves me at a loss for words. I don't want to offend anyone because I appreciate the kind words and the prayers because I believe that prayers can move mountains. The thing is that I am not brave...I wake up and fight everyday because that is what has to happen to keep going. I fall apart just like everyone else crying to my husband that I can't survive another day of this pain, apologizing as he carries basins of my vomit away to be cleaned out, and there are days that I want to hide my head under the covers and forget it all, but I feel my husband pulling me up to get dressed for yet another doctor's appointment and my son looking at me and smiling saying, "mommy bye", and I face the day. I didn't make the choice to get gastroparesis or short gut among my many physical problems, so I have to fight them, there is no choice because I made a promise the day my son was born that I would not leave him alone in this world, that God would have to take mommy kicking and screaming. Fighting these illnesses the strength comes from the smile I get while gazing into my son's bright blue eyes away, watching my husband put himself through the ringing to do anything to make life easier on me, and trusting that God has a plan still for me after all these years.
In my humble opinion it takes more bravery to overcome something like addiction because only you can decide to end that battle, no pills, no magic cure, it is an up hill fight until the finish. I watched my mother battled addiction for years, she was so miserable, and for some reason that bottle of whiskey made her feel better. She would be mom one minute and a new woman the next, I wasn't a big fan of the 'whiskey woman' who often stumbled around rambling and screaming. I was nearly sixteen when I became her target...she would say despicable things and hit me, and the next morning mom would be back and she would tell me she loved me and remind me to do my homework and that I better get an A. After my sister was born I learned to provoke her and I cared for the baby while my step dad was at work. I bore her secrets and her bruises. I thought I could fix her. I thought if I was the best, looked better, did better, she wouldn't turn to the bottle anymore, but it never stopped, it was never enough. When you are in that situation the definition of strength becomes the complete opposite, suddenly strength isn't standing up and doing it on your own, it is saying you can't do it on your own...asking for help. For her, she couldn't lose her pride so she lost her life leaving behind at the time two daughters 21 and 5.
During my mom's fight I began my own battle, anyone who has read my blog knows my story...I developed anorexia, self harm, depression, and eventually almost successfully ended my life all before the age for twenty four. I was walking in my mother's footsteps and I was strong enough to fix myself, my own pride allowed my illness to destroy me in every way you can possibly think of. I fell away from my friends in church besides one that just kept standing by me, the first guy I thought I loved raped me, my mom died, and I snapped. There are months of the years of late 08' and 09' that I don't even remember, I was so 'under control' that Andrea went somewhere else and I became my disease personified bent on ending this. All the while people tried to save my life, doctors kept me alive by force feeding me when they could, they stitched me up when I 'slipped' too deep when cutting. The more they fought they more I found myself ready to take the coward way out because I knew that if I stopped all that pain that I had been holding for so many years would all come racing through and I would be so broken, so filthy that no one would ever love or forgive me anymore. I was in such a dark place I've ever been, even compared to facing the life threatening diseases I have now, I have never been so lost and fallen so far. Despite how miserable I was I refused to admit that I wasn't strong enough to beat this on my own. The few people who still actually associated with me basically were just watching me rot away, the person I had once been completely changed in eight years. I was going to be a musician, loved singing, playing marimba, percussion, piano, and I had big plans. Once I let anorexia in my head my plans slowly began unfolding an and before I knew it eight years had passed and I lost music scholarships and spent most of my time in and out of hospitals being fed through a tube through my nose or gut. The girl I had once been was somewhere completely else...I had become my mother just a different addiction.
I decided one night in the spring of '09 that I was done, I was too far gone to be saved, and who would even care to see me saved at this point after all I had done. What I did next was not brave, courageous, or showed any strength...I pushed bottles of medication down the tube used to feed me directly into my intestine and then I took a razor to my flesh...I took my mom's way out. I knew before anyone found me I would be dead, but God was watching me when I thought I was too far gone to be seen and a friend showed up randomly and found me collapsed in my bed cold and barely breathing. I fought hard to die while all of these strangers were fighting to keep me alive. All night I resolved to give up, until I saw the light blue that you can see when the sun is getting ready to come up, and in that moment what little bit of me was still inside figured out the answer to the question I needed to get my freedom...the definition of courage and strength...admitting that I needed help, to God and everyone who was still willing to listen. Six years later I am still in recovery, and I still fight everyday to remember that sometimes it takes more strength to admit to God and the world that you are in over your head rather than keep drowning in your own pain and darkness.
Every person that has found themselves in a place where the feel lost and alone whether it is addiction, divorce, name your situation. They think they are strong enough to do it alone, pride won't allow them to reach out and stand up an find the courage to reach out for help. I know how hard it is to admit that you can't do it on your own, that whatever is holding you hostage, but the freedom that comes with reaching out is like being freed, admitting that you are not perfect, that you are human like the rest of us. Recovery is possible when you do the strongest thing there is to do...admit that you are weak and need help. I believe that is an act of courage.
It is hard for me to live in this fragile body and resist my old temptations, but I feel blessed to have control over my mind now unlike when I was clouded with the lies of my disease, convinced that I was some kind of invincible anorexic. Admitting I needed help was humbling and confidence building at the same time. I learned so much through my dark days and will continue to learn. I will always feel blessed for every person that tells me they pray for my family and our medical situation, but continue to remind them that I fight that battle because I have no choice. What makes a person strong is making the hard choices in the hardest situations. It takes courage to walk into a rehab center and face sobriety or re-feeding for someone with an eating disorder. It takes more courage and strength to live than it does to die, and I beg that if you are on that line right now that you can make the choice to fight, to dig up the strength that inside of you to reach out to someone and ask for help because you are not alone.
