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Recovery, The Beginning

Here is another writing venture.  Another piece of the memoir puzzle.  Again this was written a while ago, but just now being posted.  (I want to say it was written back in May or June maybe…)

Recovery, The Beginning

As I step out of my car, I have to force myself to relax. Just walking into therapy is a chore. There are times where I have a lot to get out, and others where it is the last place I want to be. Today is one of those days. When I am called into the office my stomach jumps into knot formation reluctantly allowing me to focus on other things.

The same seemed to happen when I arrived at my nutritionist appointment last week. All I can conclude is that recovery isn’t easy. This seems like it would be a given, but there is always a hope that things will be easier.

Sitting down in that chair. The red one with the stripes and across from a black faux leather sofa with soft aqua walls around me, the ones meant to be calming, instead feel like a glass bubble under water. Pressure all around just waiting for the weakest point where it can swallow me whole. Across from me on the harsh black sofa she sits. Almost reminding me of Those beady eyes staring out at me under those small wire framed glasses, she starts firing questions at me I have to search for the answers, digging through the disaster that is my brain. I hate mess… I hate clutter… Yet cleaning up the brain seems to be a futile task as of late.

As we discuss how my recovery is going, and my latest trip to the nutritionist, I can’t help but feel like I’m getting no where, fast.

Today my therapist decided that I thought dieting was easy. It wasn’t. Easier than recovery, yes, but definitely not easy. She didn’t seem to understand that statement. Looked at me like I had a couple of heads instead of the frustrated one. Dieting every day was a hassle, but there was a little progress every day, with every half pound or pound lost, I felt accomplished and successful. The opposite is happening now. Every pound gained seems like a failure of epic proportions. Granted without being allowed to step on a scale I don’t know the exact number of pounds gained, but I assume its in the 10-15 pound range. Its almost worse to not be allowed to know, assuming its the worst possible, when in fact it could only be 3 pounds. I still don’t dare look.

Last week the nutritionist told me that all of this is normal. Apparently my body doesn’t know how to handle 1800-2000 calories a day anymore, since its been at 1200-1500 for so many years. It will take a while before everything evens out. Daunting to thing this feeling of overwhelming discomfort, bloat and exhaustion may last a while.

Sometimes I feel therapy isn’t a right fit for me. Nick and I have discussed this on many occasions. Since I am new to this whole spilling your guts to a random stranger thing, and his conclusion is that she just may be the wrong fit for me. And that her therapy style may not work for me. Finding someone who I mesh with, although important makes everything else seem like an impressive waste of time and energy.

After 50 grueling minutes of searching for answers, accusations and discussions, it is finally over. As I walk out of the office, I do feel a little lighter, my head not organized, but gone through. In that way where before you move you take notice of everything you have, and you know where it all is so that when you do pack you can organize then. Feeling this way is brief, hopefully in time it will last longer than the walk to my car. As I step into my car, I begin to dread the visit next week.

Driving away I have a moment to reflect on my visit and my next visit.

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