I have been somewhat edgy today, probably due to digestive issues. Call it constipation, call it I-just-need-to-take-a-shit -- whatever you call it, it sure is, ahem, crappy. Sorry, but recovery is not always sexy. I knew it wouldn't be. There are the sexy parts, though, in the form of a returning libido. A slowly returning libido, mind you, but returning nonetheless. But that may be the extent of the sexiness. The rest is just rough. The rest is typically terrifying and occasionally exciting and rarely exhilarating. I keep moving forward, somehow. Perhaps it's the uncommon moments of exhilaration that sustain me. (As does food, sure sure.)
I won't lie, though. A lot of the time I wonder why in the world I am going through the recovery process. I sometimes question if I even want to get better -- and is it better "on the other side"? ED has been one of the only consistent things in my life for years. Why abandon that security? I've never been much of a gambler. I've never cared for surprises. I like to know. I like to be in control.
Buuuut... I guess I also like to be alive. So there's that. You know, being dead won't really get me to the bigger, better places I dream of. I want to visit other countries and I want to backpack long trails and I want to, yes, eventually get married and maybe adopt those damn adorable Asian girls. I want to have a backyard full of dogs and a fire pit where I sit around with friends and local beers and burgers. I want to teach. I want to be a teacher who is vibrant, bizarre, and a damn fine listener. I want to be autonomous and have enough money to take my pals out for lunch whenever, wherever. I want to know what calamari tastes like. I want to write more poetry. I want to create and keep on creating until I'm in my coffin. In fact, I want to create while I'm in my coffin. Like, I want to be a ghost who knows how to cross stitch while waiting to cross over. I want to paint. I want to speak another language. I want to finally learn how to swim instead of always sinking. I want to plant a seed or seven and watch them grow.
And so. And so I can't do a single one of these things if I am dead due to ED. Okay, I can be the cross stitching ghost, but that's about it. I doubt ghosts can properly digest calamari. I doubt I really want to hang on to ED. I have faith, no matter how small, that I want to get better, that it is a much better existence when I am better. It seems so obvious. It is obvious, but it is not easy. And that's okay. I am a fighter.
I have a phone interview with a counseling center tomorrow morning to see if I qualify for their services. Oh lordy lord, please let me qualify. If I do, I will start therapy soon. That will be good. That will give me more direction and hopefully more motivation. I am done with floating around, constantly worrying that I am about to drown. I deserve a canoe. Hell, I deserve a yacht.
Hang in there, Meg.