I loved to hate my job today. The hating made me feel alive. Infused with passion and burnished by the rage - so obvious it nearly stunted my vision - I felt, more than once, that I loved my job.
Not because it served a purpose or because it was important to someone, but because my voice mattered.
I've felt recently that my voice does not matter. Or even worse, that my voice is not heard. In conversations with G, with Mark, about my job and my goals, about my future and my uterus. Those conversations controlled me life, but included variables into which I had no input.
Let us not turn this into a diatribe on control - eating disorders and control, anorexia and control -the monotony of it all often deafens the purpose of the movement.
This is a story of me taking over my life. Of acknowledging that I am happy when I am making a difference. When I'm in the diver's seat. That as much as I love autonomy and the freedoms to design my own role, I like that at the end of the day, what I am doing matters.
I've lost that control at wok. I've lost it in my own life. I"m not saying I want my ED back because I don't - those demons aren't the ones that haunt me this time - but I do yearn for its knowingness. The simplicity it affords.
I miss the crevasses between being important and being utterly invisible - unknowable, and yearn for that in between space.
I guess others might call that progress. I call it self awareness, And years and years and years of therapy.