the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
- Adrienne Rich, Diving Into the Wreck
I do not trust myself around food. Around anything substantial. Love. Joy. Fulfillment, even conceptually, haunts me with its possibilities, an endless expanse of what could be.
I am too greedy to be trusted. My body does not fear boundaries, choosing instead to charge stubbornly and at full speed at what stands in its way. It does not obey convention, nor does it fear the consequences of its actions. In the presence of excess, my body is overwhelmed by consumption. Balance is the absence of feeling - I do not know I am full until I have surpassed my limits, nor do I recognize hunger until it has overtaken my thoughts. My body, my brain, thrive in this black and white space, the contrast blinding the possibility of gray, of what if.
In this moment, in the present that is today, this breath, I do not know how to eat until I am simply satisfied, to drink for pleasure and not inebriation, to live outside my body without abandoning it entirely. I am voracious for connection, empathy, food, sex, for losing myself.
It's either acceptable or gross. Thin or fat. Success or failure. Each attempt at moderation reaffirms this hypothesis - I am too hungry to be left alone with only some, too needy to be satisfied by my portion alone.
I am working towards a future where I am not governed by polar opposition, where I can submerge myself fully in the in the murkiness. In this reality, every event is not a crisis, and every tear is not depression. Feelings will cohabiate freely in this space, aware but not threatened by their temporal existence. I will be able to leave some for later, portion my heart out with comfort. One bad meal will not make me fat, nor will one heartbreak doom me to a lifetime of loneliness.
The high I seek with be the journey itself. I will trust my body's own regulation, marveling only at its innate craving for balance. I worry that beyond these layers my core is weak, that I may inherently favor complacency.
This is part of recovery, my journey to appreciate the thrill of Rich's metaphor of diving, to experience pleasure in the thing itself.