In Search of My Identity, Part 1

I always ducked when girls at bat hit a ball my way.  Not a softball player.

I was afraid of falling off the parallel bars and balance beam.  Not a gymnast.

I liked to draw, but what I saw in my head was not what others saw on paper.  Not an artist.

Numbers jumbled on the page and made my head hurt.  Not a math scholar or scientist.

I could pluck on the guitar, string words together, and pound the keyboard, but what I produced was never as good as others' masterpieces.

But I was good at starving myself.  I could make myself small.  Others took note of my skill and heaped attention on me.  I wasn't the smallest or the sickest, but I knew that if I worked my hardest, I could get there.  I had found my niche, my identity--nothing, no one, could take this from me.

For me, the most terrifying aspect of recovery was losing my identity as the smallest, the sick one, the one who ate like a bird.  My life had become defined by numbers on the scale and clothing tags, doctors appointments, and self-hatred.  As much as anorexia tortured me, it was my comfort, providing me with a false sense of identity.  If I couldn't be "X," at least I was skinny.  Each time recovery was within my grasp, I relapsed, too fearful of losing myself and too overwhelmed by the prospect of creating a whole new self.

I understood that there were no trophies for the skinniest nor the one who could purge everything, but I desperately craved to be something and to have talent in something.  Years of being sick, especially throughout adolescence, stripped valuable time from exploration into and formation of my Self.  While my friends sought interests, I sought thinness.  While my friends apprenticed at sports, the arts, or music, I would trial and error at starvation, accumulating skill in self-destruction.

I could have been a mathematician, or a painter, or a runner, or anything else that made my heart swell.  I didn't become those things because I was too afraid to fail, too fearful of not being the best.  All those years spent working at the eating disorder could have been spent working on true desires.

In recovery I found the courage to write, a hobby that has brought me joy since I penned my first word.  I am not the best writer, nor will I ever be...and that is okay.  Striving to be the best prevents me from exploring my one true pleasure.  Besides, other writers' incredible skill does NOT negate my ability--my skill will continue to exist even when someone else comes along who is more talented.  In other words, I am learning to let go of perfectionism, learning that no one person holds talent trump.

To recover, we have to be willing to take risks, to allow ourselves to fail and to learn from that failure.  We must be willing to accept that being mediocre at something doesn't negate our uniqueness as individuals.  Recovery means exploring ourselves in gray, not just in black and white, fat and thin, good and bad.

I may not be the best runner, writer, knitter, yogi, or Candy Crush player, but I am a good friend, a loving wife and daughter, a nurturing teacher, a terrible cook, and one hell of a crazy cat lady.