Happy almost Friday everyone,
Since I last wrote, I have officially moved to Washington (the state, not D.C.), got my own apartment and started my new job as a reporter for the main newspaper where I’m living.
When I used to talk about living in the gray, I had no idea just what that totally meant, and I still don’t think I know what it totally means, but I think I have a better idea of it now.
When I first started recovery, living in the gray meant not weighing myself and not knowing that number.
Then it meant letting go of my standards of self perfection.
Some days it meant going with the flow when my plans fell through.
Today, living in the gray means accepting that I would rather sleep an extra two hours than go to the gym before work.
Today, living in the gray means not knowing how I will meet all new friends and people, but that I will.
Today, living in the gray means not being able to try on all the old Ed clothes I gave away before I moved.
For now, the gray means this and only this: I am figuring things out.
And maybe it’s always been that simple all along.
One of the biggest changes that I’ve had in recovery since I’ve moved to Washington is that I no longer have a mirror in my room.
I actually only have one full length mirror now and it’s in my bathroom.
Not only is it in my bathroom, but it’s hanging on the inside of the cleaning supplies closet door in the bathroom; basically, it’s as inaccessible as a mirror can be.
This means that I no longer wake up and do body checks in my bedroom.
I know that if I wanted to, I could stroll myself up to the bathroom, open the closet and lift up my shirt and do a check, but 9 days out of 10, that walk just feels defeating, like I am letting Ed start my day for me.
The three times that I have made that morning walk to that mirror and did my body check, I never once felt better. I didn’t feel relieved, I didn’t feel sad and I didn’t feel happy.
I felt empty. It didn’t bring me anything. It didn’t get me a cover story. It didn’t get me new friends.
My jeans still don’t button how they used to and I am still not comfortable in my skin how I would like to be, but that mirror is not going to bring me any of that.
On the days that I fight the urge to make that morning walk to my mirror, and on every single day since I’ve been here (with the exception of two days) that I didn’t go to the gym because I wanted to sleep more, I thought to myself, “good job Shira. You love you baby, love you.”
Yes, I really do talk to myself like that.
I love myself when I make sure I come home for lunch every day.
I love myself when I eat a snack every day.
And I surely loved myself when I left my very first city council meeting mid–way to go eat dinner and come right back.
Some nights, I love myself so much I even have two desserts after dinner.
Tomorrow there is a BBQ at my work and a going away party with cake, and I guess I’ll love myself through that too.
But above all, on my hardest days here, it is my family, friends and fellow fighters who have lifted me up.
I don’t care how much success I have in Washington and I don’t care if they make me a world known writer-I moved here never forgetting where I came from.
And I will never forget that.
I came from the fighter who started this blog.
I am still her and I will never let her out of my sight.
For all of us fighters…Hello Life.