10:42 p.m. - Wednesday, Oct. 27, 2010
Sara's Road to Recovery
It was a hot day, and Sara was feeling particularly self-conscious. She had only been living in this part of Pennsylvania for a year, and she had never experienced the infamous annual music festival. She was embracing this new life as best she could. She didn't see many people these days - on purpose. She focused on her job . . .the overnight shift at a bakery - where she worked alone. She moved hours away from her friends and family under the guise of having fallen in love . . .but still waters run deep. She was in recovery.
She loved the sense of freedom and independence living alone in a new state had given her. And she loved music! So she decided to invite her family to visit during the week of the festival. She would show off her new home and explore her new surroundings.
Sara was in recovery . . .she wasn't healed. On this particular day, she felt her heart pounding a little harder than normal. As she and her mom and dad walked the hot concrete streets of the festival, she imagined the eyes of passers-by staring at her, judging her, hating her. Too many people, too little strength of character.
She tried to smile and enjoy the company. She held her arms close to her sides, willing herself to appear smaller, sweating in the sun. As they passed an ice cream display handing out free samples, she averted her eyes. She didn't want to partake, fearing that people would make comments to each other about this fat cow not being able to pass up a sweet treat. Truth be told, ice cream was never her drug of choice. But her parents wanted to stop. So she pretended to be OK. Pretending to be OK . . .yeah, that sounds more like it.
After they had walked around a bit, Sara's dad mentioned going back for a second sample. No way. She wouldn't be caught dead walking back to that display a second time. "I'll meet you guys back over here," she said. "I just want to walk up the street a bit."
She watched them walk to the display. Normal. Like everyone else. But she wasn't. Not today. She tried to stay calm as the crowds of people passed around her. Telling herself they didn't give a shit if she was there or not. But someone was walking toward her. She looked for her parents through the crowd. Where were they? A moving target would be easier to hit. She didn't like just standing around for people to gawk at.
The man was fast approaching. Obviously intoxicated, he sidled up right next to her. Too close. She shifted uncomfortably as he leaned in toward her. "Can I ask you a question?" he sneered. "Please don't," she thought. "Sure," she replied. "How did your arms get so big?" he inquired disgustedly. He went on . . .something about how disgusted and shocked he was . . .statements peppered with profanity . . .his eyes never leaving her bumpy red arms . . .
She felt exposed. Violated. Embarrassed. She moved away quickly . . .blacking out. She couldn't see the people anymore, couldn't hear the noise. Just felt his eyes on her skin. His voice in her head. She wanted to cry. But there were too many people. Swallow it down, hold it in . . .she wanted to hide, but couldn't. She wanted to die in that moment.
But she controlled it. No one saw her tears. She brushed them away just as her parents finally returned from their second sampling of ice cream. "Everything OK?" "Yeah, let's just keep moving."
Just keep moving. Don't feel anything. That has been the road to recovery for Sara. The irony is in the circle.
In her earliest of memories, someone once humiliated her in a vulnerable state. Laughed at her naked body. And when her mom found out, she was removed from the situation. And this little 4-year-old girl thought it was she who had done something wrong. So she decided to be a good girl and not tell when things hurt her. And things did hurt her. This four-year-old girl would have body image issues for the rest of her life. Always feeling like something was different. Something must be wrong with her. And she kept it in, kept it in, kept it in . . .and learned that eating relieved pain. And she got bigger. And felt more pain. And kept it in. And dated boys who abused her . . .because she deserved to be hurt. And felt more pain. And got bigger. And became afraid to be around people. And her full-scholarship to college was taken away and she had to drop out because she was too afraid to leave the sanctity of her dorm room. Too afraid that people would look at her. So she got bigger. And kept it in. And knew it was spiraling out of control, but couldn't ask for help because she only knew how to keep it in . . .so she cut her skin open and let dirty old men use her body. And felt more pain and kept it in and got bigger.
Until she couldn't take it anymore. So she moved. She was in recovery. Didn't want to cut her skin open anymore. Didn't want to stay hidden away. She moved. And went back to school. And got a new job. And started playing the piano at a local church on Sundays and got a promotion and majored in music and got her degree and another promotion and moved and moved and moved.
Just keep moving. Her fear is standing still. As long as she's moving, she's in recovery.
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