Clandestine Confessions

Every Wednesday at 10:30AM was cooking class at the inpatient facility.
I remember that mostly because I still get anxious when the clock hands hit the 10 and 6 every week.
Subconsciously so.
Trauma is a tricky thing.
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There were a few classes out of the umpteen I took in the 12 years of being a “revolving door” patient there in which I refused to participate.
Two of them were pizza.
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First time I sat in the dining room from 12:30PM-11PM.
Rejecting every offer to even lift the lid.
“Would you look at it to at least act like you are actually going to try it? Give us all a little hope.”
“No.”
It would be the only word I would speak over those 10.5 hours.
They would come do it for me.
I would put the cover back on as soon as they sat down.
Shift change would repeat the spectacle.
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I needed to make my point.
Or should I say….I needed to maintain control.
I needed to prove (even if just to myself) my loyalty to the disorder – that it still was within me. That I still had my choice to access it when needed…
I didn’t have many opportunities to fight back without severe consequences, so I flexed my “stubbornness” sparingly.
I would ultimately end the day with two trays of untouched food in front of me.
Because my world then was only painted black and white.
If I wasn’t going to eat one meal, why bother with any food at all.
And then tomorrow would come, and all would resume as normal.
As if nothing ever happened the day before.
The only hint of its presence being the residual euphoria slightly lifting the depression of my reality.
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Second time we bypassed the chaos.
They gave me an Ensure Plus at the end of the meal instead.
I didn’t refute it because I knew the calories in the drink.
I could not say the same for that slice of pizza…
Part of the reason it met my wrath.
I could safely align with the known, but the unknown was absolutely nonnegotiable.
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Fastforward about 7.5 years.
Me sitting in a Starbucks planning my road trip and deciding on Chicago as a destination purely for one reason…
The pizza.
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I started to talk myself out of it the closer I got to the restaurant.
The long walk gave me too much time to begin rebuilding the familiar prison of panic and pain.
“You don’t HAVE to do this…”
“Nobody would know you backed out…”
“You could live without it…”
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But could I really?
Could I walk away from this choice and be content with the yes I never gave?
Would I be able to reflect on this trip feeling completely fulfilled with the life I lived?
Would I be able to say I did my best to become the person I once needed?
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And it would be with this dangerous, disorder defying type of questioning when the shift would take place.
One that would make every life-giving decision from here on out possible.
When the regret of not facing the fear would consume me more than if I partook in it.
Realizing I could live with the discomfort in my body afterwards far better than I could the discomfort in my spirit if I gave this pizza my no.
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Keeping that authentic driven truth in the forefront of my mind, I ordered my slice.
And as the anxiety inevitably came knocking, I reminded myself of that J in treatment.
The one sitting with her head down, arms crossed, heart closed to the idea of there being any more for her than defeat and defiance to life.
This was for her redemption.
For her to learn that control is not peace.
For her to experience the safety that comes with living unconfined…
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And that she was gifted.
God even beautifully tied it with a bow as an 828 waited for us right outside the restaurant.
My ever-present reminder of the purpose in pain.
The purpose I had the immense privilege to say was now my reality.