Fighting For Grace

“Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are -- chaff and grain together -- certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.” Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

My third night in IOP was Lisa's last night there. She seemed like a kind person. She seemed like she had probably been through a lot. I tried to imagine what it would be like to leave Renfrew. I tried to guess how I would feel. Would I feel like a different person? Would I be "fixed"? I didn't know what it would mean, but Lisa sure did look happy. They asked her if there was anything she wanted to share with the group. She thought for a minute and she said "Progress not perfection." I thought about that phrase while she was gathering her thoughts. "I kept thinking I had to be perfect, but perfect isn't possible. Progress is though." She said some more things, but this concept has really stuck with me. Part of what an eating disorder does is "help you" cope with feeling like you've failed at, well, anything. Didn't finish your laundry? Here, have some cookies. Didn't stick to your daily Bible reading schedule? Oh here's some crackers for you. Don't like the way you feel today? Oh, don't you worry, I have just the thing. After several attempts at fixing my failures or problems with food, Ed liked to try to convince me that if food didn't fix it, laxatives would do the trick. But, Ed was wrong. After a binge/purge session all I would feel was guilt for eating and then taking laxatives. When I heard the phrase "Progress not perfection," I decided it would be my recovery mantra. That little phrase from an almost stranger got me through some of the hardest times of my life that were just around the corner.

It was week two of treatment. I was meeting with my individual therapist for the first time and I was a little nervous. When I'm nervous I talk too much, so that made me even more nervous. I stepped into her office and she started by asking me to tell her a little about myself and if this was my first therapy session. She asked me to tell her what I thought would make a good therapist. I started talking about myself and Stuart, and Camden. I told her I had briefly met with a therapist at the first treatment center I went to, and that it wasn't a great experience. I told her I would just like to talk to someone who didn't seem too therapisty. She laughed.  She asked me questions naturally and even though I know she had an agenda (all therapists do), she led the conversation in ways that made me feel as though I were talking with a friend rather than someone who was trained to listen. We made a recovery plan. She said she was most concerned at the time about the amount of laxatives I was taking. She asked if I would be willing to try taking 2 less a day for the next week. She also said it would be helpful if I started filling out food journals and eating the recommended exchanges. I agreed.  When I walked out of the door that day she said, "I like you." I smiled, and was able to genuinely say back that I liked her too.

That week was a breeze. I did take two less laxatives on most days. Food journals- eh, not so much, but I loved going to Renfrew. It became my solace. I took in every word and was fascinated with how much I could relate to these women who all had very different stories. At the end of the second week there was a new girl, Grace. She looked like she was early 20's, tall, thin. She looked nervous. The therapist asked if there was anything we would want to tell her about our group. "It's safe, I said. No judgement here." She nodded, and looked relieved. She volunteered for the first exercise in group that day and really put her heart into it. I was impressed. I was going to like this girl, I could tell. When we got to dinner it was apparent she was going to have a hard time. She poked around on her plate and ate a few bites. The therapist gently tried to encourage her to eat more. She started trembling and then crying and true fear was written all over her face. I had never seen anything like it. I moved my tray to the chair beside her and patted her back. "Your body knows what to do with it. Your body needs this food." She tried her very hardest, but just couldn't finish it. That voice in her head that was telling her not to eat was just too strong. She was a fighter, though, and I wanted to fight even harder now too- for Grace.