Letting It Go

I learned how to ride a bike later than most kids, maybe around seven.  I was so content with my plastic Big Wheels "bike" that I never really cared to make the switch.  Of course, I owned a "big girl" bike complete with training wheels, but nothing gave me more satisfaction than racing down the steep incline of our driveway and sharply turning at the last possible second, slowly shredding away the plastic wheel.

At some point, I must have been determined to learn to ride that "big girl bike."  It may have had tassels at the handlebars, maybe not, but it did have a way too cool banana seat (this was the 80s).   It was time for the training wheels to come off, literally, and all along the sidewalk, I remember my mother holding on as I wobbled with bold perseverance.  In my mind's eye I can see the lush summer grass, the verdant trees, and my mom happy as a lark when I allowed her to let go, and I simply did it--I rode that bike up and down that sidewalk all on my own.  Learning to ride without training wheels on a real bike opened possibilities for me of which I had never dreamed.  Larger wheels meant longer distances to travel from home.  Larger wheels meant meeting new friends at the end of the street.   Larger wheels meant less help from Mom. My seven-year-old world suddenly became a whole lot larger, and I became  more independent than ever.

Letting go of an eating disorder, like learning to ride a bike, takes a lot of time, some trial and error, and the guidance from and support of those we love.  There's fear in letting go, in doing it on our own.  There's reluctance to envision ourselves doing it on our own, without those strong hands guiding our way and literally propping us upright.  How can we do this without our therapists, our dietitians, our doctors, or our support groups?  How can we guide ourselves along the right path, upright, without toppling over and hurting ourselves?  How can we trust that we have this ability when so many times before we have fallen?

There's a sadness in letting our doctors, therapists, et al. go, those individuals with whom we have grown so close and who know so much about us.  Once the training wheels come off, we must learn to navigate our own lives and maintain a delicate balance.  We begin to travel farther and farther from those strong hands, glancing back to see those hands waving us on our way.

Letting go of the eating disorder feels so bittersweet.  There are losses, there are gains, but in the end, if we persevere through the wobbly learning curve, we emerge with lives much fuller and larger than we could have imagined when we were sick.  The fears of the unknown seem less scary.  There's suddenly so much to do and to see.  We inexplicably desire to explore new pursuits.   Our world becomes so large that the returning to the small, desolate ED world loses its allure.

Recovering requires a lot of faith in oneself and in the world that lies outside of our minds.  Following meal plans, attending groups, journaling, etc..., steady and direct us, help us to grow stronger, allow us to grow a larger, illustrious world in which we want to engage.  We must replace all that was isolating, destructive, and minimizing with connection, joy, and fulfillment.

We may not be the most steady when we let go, but we have to keep going, one foot in front of the other.  Because before we know it, recovery will be as automatic as riding a bike--and looking back just won't be the same.

Cheers!