A Bone to Pick

Where's the light at the end of the tunnel?

And I'm done.

No more examinations. No more Saturday tests. No more prep time. No more heaps of past papers to practise from.

I was officially done with my A levels and a free woman. Unbelievable.

I could finally shed all that stress. All that loneliness. Let down the walls that surrounded my heart. I could try and find myself again. But my anorexic-cum-orthorexia habits have been so ingrained in me and entrenched in my mind for so long that I couldn't let it go so easily.  Well, at least the orthorexia part clung to me like a monkey. Upon my return home, I began my own slow journey to gradually increase my food intake again and increase my weight, so that settled any worries regarding my willingness to break away from my anorexic mindset.

My parents were understanding of my orthorexic tendencies, giving me the space and time to confront it my way. They gave me free reign over the foods I wanted to consume or avoid, and the style of cooking. I couldn't view food the same way anymore, and so this made dining with my family rather awkward. When before we used to just cook a big batch of vegetables or meat for us to share as a family, now I requested my own singular portions. It wasn't because I was trying to restrict my diet or control my intake, but rather that I wanted to eat cleanly without any sauce in my dishes. No salt, no sugar, nothing added at all. When we went out for meals, I would eat mine much earlier and then sit through theirs, not eating anything. I didn't want to eat out anymore because I couldn't control the amount of salt/sugar they put in the foods. And since I was still slowly getting over my controlling tendencies, the thought of the amount of sugar/salt that goes into the preparation of some of these foods freaked me out. 

Despite not eating with them, I still participated in conversations and talked to them, but the dynamics were different. My father insisted that it's because the bonding happens when we eat together - and I agree. But I felt that it wasn't necessary for the actual physical eating to occur in order for the bonds to be forged. To me, it's the  quality of the time spent together that really defines a relationship. We could spend hours eating together at hundreds of different places, but still remain strangers. Or, we could just have a cup of tea and chat for hours, becoming closer than before. This begged the question: was my presence not enough for the family?

It took a lot of effort to explain the reasoning behind my actions surrounding food to my family. They couldn't really understand why I was so strict and rigid about my eating habits, oftentimes thinking that it's making me unhappy and ruining my life. They still believe that its my orthorexic tendencies rearing its ugly head that's causing me to self-impose said habits, to eat as healthily as I do: mainly steaming my foods, with the occasional stir-fry using minimal oil; no condiments except for herbs or natural foods like ginger; no fried foods etc. But I truly believed and enjoyed my meals prepared this way, so I didn't see any reason to stop. It was a lifestyle change I was making as I tried to make up for all the past years I filled my body with junk foods. 

To them, it was still me being orthorexic, still me letting my mental problems win. How can I argue against that, despite explaining to them the truth? They wanted to believe what they wanted to believe, and I can only do so much. But at least they gave me the space and time to recover and beat my mental illness myself, though I knew that for some there was a silent clock ticking behind me.

My mom believed in the slow and steady, soft approach - giving me the opportunity to direct my recovery in whatever way I wanted, as long as progress could be seen. There was no deadline in sight, just a progress bar. She provided me with so much love and encouragement every step of the way, congratulating me whenever I made little advancements out of my comfort zone. We celebrated the small wins together, such as allowing myself to eat a whole piece of salmon. My second brother believed that she was going too slow, and that I wasn't really making any effort at all. To him, dealing with mental illness was like an on/off switch. Just tell yourself to stop. Simple as that. Poof. Magic. What he didn't understand was how difficult it is to fight yourself.

Let me try to explain it in words. Tricky, but I'll do my best. Having a mental illness is like having another voice occupying your headspace. Version You 2.0, but bad and more powerful. Not invincible, but definitely more overpowering than your own voice. People keep thinking that we just succumb to the voices telling us to restrict or overexercise, whatever Version You 2.0 says. But we're actually fighting back really hard. It's a screaming match inside your head, seeing whose voice comes out tops. Seeing whose willpower is stronger. And if you're as stubborn and strong-willed as me, you can imagine how equally headstrong Version You 2.0 would be. 

It's a battle of wills between you and you. 

So despite my best efforts trying to explain it to him, and my mom begging him to be more patient and understanding, my second brother just kept getting angry at me for my slow progress. His impatience and lack of empathy just resulted in a lot of blow-ups directed towards me, filled with healthy doses of insults like: "You're so selfish"; "You're single-handedly ripping this family apart you piece of shit"; "fucking crazy bitch"; and "you sure a special piece of work" among others, and generous sprinklings of reminders to "pull your shit together and fix it". I really am trying, and yes I admit that there are instances where I regress, but god I'm not a miracle worker. I can't magically "fix" myself overnight, and I wish he understood that I'm not some item he needs to repair. And contrary to his belief of "tough love", which he insists is what he's doing, all that's resulting from his actions is pushing me further and further away. His words don't hurt me, but they most certainly don't make me want to do much either. Rather, I have a strong urge to just rebel against him. I'm not saying he can't be angry - he has every right to if that's what he wants - but all I ask for is for him to consider whether my actions really warrants the response he gives. Does he really need to yell and shout every single time? Does his anger really need to just explode and escalate so quickly? 

Encouraging, isn't it?