Clandestine Confessions

The last writing left off on the realization while preparing for my road trip that the last time I packed for such an extended period of time was when going to treatment in 2014.
Those two events may seem drastically different, but they shared common causes.
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To heal.
To aid in the becoming of my most authentic self.
To shed the thoughts and fears and behaviors holding me back from living fully alive.
To reclaim my joy.
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(One of them fulfilled their purpose…)
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They also had another similarity.
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The fact I only wore about 1/8 of what I had originally packed.
Random? Most definitely.
But trust I am going somewhere with this.
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Here comes the beginning of sharing glimpses of my untold disordered years…
As a result of my loyalty to the eating disorder, unwilling to relinquish control, during a few of my hospital stays I made a series of self-destructive choices that left me with a list provided by the doctor of “acceptable” clothes I could wear at meals.
They would do an outfit check before I could grab my tray from the cart.
If I failed the inspection, I would be forced to change.
It left me with a very limited selection from what I had packed.
At one point I was even wearing clothes inside out.
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Once they discovered that was still not enough to break the stronghold, it became only a hospital gown.
Absolutely nothing else underneath (they made sure of that).
And no socks or shoes allowed.
I would eat in my bedroom with a staff member looking at me the whole time.
Then a full body check would be done after the meal before I could get dressed.
(It is the great irony of how one’s pursuit for control often leaves them stripped of most of it.)
And yet, I still found ways around those protections…
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I do not say any of that with pride.
There is a reason I have never yet shared my memories from treatment.
Most of it absolutely breaks my heart to recall.
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Because what others perceived as noncompliant and stubborn, I saw as me trying to survive.
In my head, I could not live, could not exist, could not make it in this world without the disorder.
It had nothing to do with not being able to live in a healthier body.
It had everything to do with feeling incapable of handling the emotions and trauma I utilized this coping mechanism to cover up and numb.
I was convinced the pain would be too unbearable.
To feel it all would be the death of me.
But yet my efforts to not feel it all were killing me.
I had to pick one to bet on to keep me alive a bit longer.
Ultimately, I would always end up signing myself out AMA.
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Now onto the opposing side…
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It was my loyalty to life, eagerly desiring to live with abandon, that determined my wardrobe choices while traveling the country.
Since I spent most of the time always on the go, sleeping in my car, living out of my suitcase, I stayed dressed in what was comfortable.
Sometime spending multiple days in the same outfit.
If I wore something inside out it was because I put it on wrong (which I am notorious for doing since I was a child…).
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I thrived in having no rules for how to be alive, radically rebelling against the “normal”.
And while from the outside my adventure may have seemed chaotic, I never felt more in control over my life.
But yet felt so little need to actually be in control.
Ultimately, I would end my trip with more life and bliss flowing through my body than I ever thought possible.
To live in the less was no longer the goal.
All I wanted was to live in the more – feel more, live more, be more, speak more, take up more space.
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For me, my path to “home” was not conventional.
Treatment and therapy and medication were not my way out – I gave it decades of tries with no avail.
And that is okay.
It is also okay if that IS what works for you.
Keep living and experimenting and dreaming until you find what calls to your soul.
One or five or one hundred “failed” attempts does not mean healing is not for you.
I promise you it is.
You may just have to rent a car and explore the world to find it…