Quieting the Voice

The other day, my mom sat me down and insisted on having a serious conversation.

“Are you fully recovered?”

I hesitated and repeated that question in my head over and over.

I was afraid to say it.

“No. I don’t think I am.”

Her eyes widened, and her face tensed up.

In the past, this would be the moment I would shut down the conversation and avoid explaining my feelings due to the fear of judgment.

But this time, I was comfortable and prompted to talk.

Mental recovery takes a long time. It is unrealistic to set the goal of having every self-deprecating thought exterminated.

To me, recovery is to have the strength to recognize moments when the irrational thoughts ramp up and to cultivate a sassy angel on my shoulder who yells at the pessimism to get lost.

I still have to make a conscious effort to be outgoing and enthusiastic, knowing it’s easy to just give in to the “comfort” of being dissociated and melancholic.

But the fight got easier over time. The self-critical voice went from full-on screaming to shouting to standard volume and now to a whisper.

Now, I can sit and watch the beautiful sunset without feeling anxious or stressed about my other responsibilities. I push myself to go out of my comfort zone and learn from the experiences instead of fearing the outcome. I try to appreciate the little things in life that have nothing to do with food or my body. I notice the wrinkles that are starting to form at the corners of my eyes because I've been smiling much more, and I savor the warmth that my body is now able to hold as I walk through the hallways at school.

Maybe full recovery is achievable, but if I beat myself up for not getting there, how is that different from toxic perfectionism?

I leaned on my mom’s shoulder and said, “I’m not there yet, but I am better at turning the volume down.”