“the soul looked out”
“Immortal Love”
By Louise Glück
Like a door
the body opened and
the soul looked out.
Timidly at first, then
less timidly
until it was safe.
Then in hunger it ventured.
Then in brazen hunger,
then at the invitation
of any desire.
. . . . . . . . .
We are a society that values the instant and immediate. I think of the phone I grew up with—a rotary dial, no call waiting, no caller ID, no voice mail. Just a phone. Then I look at the phone I have now: I’m in the middle of several scrabble games with friends, I can send and receive text messages, take calls, see who’s calling, access the internet, listen to music, and take pictures. To name a few things. All with a nice little tap of my finger on a screen.
Recovery isn’t like our phones, although we want it to be. Snap our fingers and be done with it all. It’s a process, much like the opening to Louise Glück’s poem, “Immortal Love.” First, we look at the pool, the water shimmering in the sun. We look out and contemplate recovery. An important first step since no one can make us recover. Then we dip our toes in the pool, testing the temperature. We enter treatment, talk to someone, seek help. Eventually we confront our fears and jump in. It’s terrifying at first, feeling like you can’t breathe and wondering if you’ll reach the surface in time.
Then the shift begins. We gain power from confronting our fears. And we gain courage to continue facing them. Eventually, we learn we have enough power to face our biggest fear: the world. What we were trying to escape with our addictions of various types. The power and courage and strength we gained in taking tiny steps helps us when we make the move into the world.
There will come a point when the world will call you, and you will desire it, and you will venture out into it. You will be ready. And you will be able. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, and never compare yourself to someone else’s journey. We each have our own journey, regardless of the destination.
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History in Brief
I know many of you will have questions about me, my history, my recovery. While illness is not the focus of this blog, I want you to know where I am coming from.
Pinpointing the start of any eating disorder is often difficult. I’ve been an athlete since I was five. I discovered I could “escape” through running when I was in junior high, beginning a long history of exercise addiction and abuse. After I graduated from high school, I developed anorexia. I’ve been hospitalized multiple times, and in the beginning had no intention of getting better. But I explained things to a recent doctor this way: “I spent the first 30 years of my life not caring if I lived. Now I’m prepared to do anything to ensure I do.” That included giving up a twelve-year relationship with anorexia.
People will ask, “How sick were you?” which, in my opinion, is simply another way of asking, “How thin were you?” I will not answer any questions about size or weight. I was sicker than some, not as sick as others. I’m alive, though, and a lot of people who were not as “visibly sick” as I was, are not. If the one thing you take away from this page is that you don’t have to be thin to die from an eating disorder, I’ll be happy.
People ask, “Why did you get better?” At first, I did it because I didn’t want my nephew growing up visiting me in hospitals. When he was born, he took hold of my heart in a way I never expected. I carried around pictures of him to remind me to eat. Then, I did it for me. I did it for me because one day, someone asked me what I did for a living. And I answered, “I’m in a Master’s program.” But then I realized: I wasn’t in a Master’s program. I was in the hospital. For the second time since I had started that program. And even when I was in class, I wasn’t really in class. I was 2% student and 98% anorexic. And I realized I didn’t want to be known as “that girl,” or “the sick girl” anymore. I wanted to be known as a writer, a friend, an aunt, and a whole list of other things.
And I couldn’t do those other things until the anorexic part of me was gone.
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I just wanted to say thank you. I can relate to so much of what you write. While I am still struggling a great deal at the moment, you give me great hope and affirm that there is a reason to keep fighting.
There is never a sudden revelation, a complete and tidy explanation for why it happened, or why it ends, or why or who you are. It comes in bits and pieces, and you stitch them together wherever they fit, and when you are done you hold yourself up, and still there are holes and you are a rag doll, invented, imperfect. And yet you are all that you have, so you must be enough. There is no other way. ~ Marya Hornbacher