A pre eating disorder morning:
I would wake up to the blaring of my alarm and turn drowsily on my side to stare at the stark red numbers on my alarm clock. 5:15 am was my waking time to make it to my 6:30 am morning dance practice. However frighteningly early that may seem, once the fog of sleep had lifted, my mind would begin to buzz and my excitement for the day would surface. Being a morning person, I always valued my time before the hectic day hit me with full force. I would chuck on my dance clothes and lace up my tennis shoes, running to the bathroom to add a bit of mascara. After deodorant and a thorough brushing of my teeth I made my way to the kitchen, almost always to find my parents already up and at em, coffee cups in hand.
My lovely parents understood the strenuous demands of my dance practices and most mornings my dad would cook me breakfast, a ritual I looked forward to. My mom would hand me a cup of coffee and I would add the necessities: creamer and a bit of sugar, the perfect concoction. My dad would set breakfast before us and we would all enjoy the meal together, spending those sacred thirty minutes truly enjoying each other.
The key was, it wasn’t about the breakfast. Whether my dad had made an egg scramble, oatmeal, or even cereal really didn’t matter. The food was not the focus – it merely served to enhance the experience and fuel my body for the practice ahead.
One year later – An eating disorder morning:
My alarm sounded at 4:45 am every morning. Exhausted, I would turn to stare at the ungodly red numbers blaring back at me. As soon as cognition set in I would lurch from my bed, grabbing the workout clothes I had laid out precisely the night before. I would throw the clothes on, ignoring the pang of dread already beginning to surface and paying no attention to my sore, worn out body. I would lace up my tennis shoes and run out the door, never bothering to drink a glass of water or even look in the mirror. After a four mile run or I would return to find my parents already enjoying their cups of coffee and breakfast.
My dad would always extend the offer, “Hey GP! I made you an egg scramble if you want it.” or “There’s oatmeal in the pot.” Anger, or maybe more accurately, ED, would flare up at his offer. I would hastily refuse my father’s kindness and pour myself a cup of black coffee. Ed refused to allow me even the smallest amount of creamer. Grabbing my cup to go I would race out the door to practice, and just like that, my once so cherished morning disappeared.
This is only one small example of the many things ED has taken from me.
I am ready to take them back.